Speak Against the Sun
by words without
Summary: Al Mualim is dead, but the Order's future remains uncertain. Altair's Brotherhood faces threats from without and within: Mongol attacks, high-ranking betrayals, his and Malik's fragile peace. The real danger, though, is something far older. Altair is seeing ghosts – someone else is trying to raise them. *AltMal, post-AC1 sequel to 'And When the Earth Shall Claim Your Limbs'*
1. Prologue

AN: Hello!

If you haven't read _And When the Earth Shall Claim Your Limbs_, this fic won't make a lot of sense. If you're not ok with an eventual M rating, this fic might lose you relatively soon. If you're looking for Maria, she'll be along eventually, but if you're looking for Altair/Maria, you won't find it. Much. Sorta. It's complicated. This is an AltMal fic, anyway. Thanks to _skywalker05_ for title brainstorming.

A snippet of this chapter was posted on my nascent tumblr account, which was a kick in the rear to get writing again. I'm actually kind of nervous – _And When the Earth_ had a pretty simple timeline, and was built around game canon. This fic flashes back and forwards, switches narrators, and is built largely on the ideas I come up with while playing AC3 at two in the morning. 90% of Bowdenverse is ignored. The events of AC1 will be featured heavily, but this way the fic doesn't turn into a novel-rewrite of the game. I hope it all works. Let me know if it doesn't.

Quote is from the haunting poem, "I'm dying, God," by Cemal Süreya, translated from the Turkish by Murat Nemet-Nejat.

* * *

"_I'm dying, God.  
This has happened too.  
Every death is early death,  
I know."_

_**Prologue: Those Who Go Astray**_

_In the name of Allah, Most Merciful, Most Compassionate…_

The old man submits with fervor. His praying has been polished smooth by all the years of repetition, all the innumerable days of bending, bowing, humbling himself before God. It was easier when he was young. These days his back aches mere moments into the recitation. There are rules for the elderly in _Sharia_, and there's no need for him to prostrate himself as though his bones aren't brittle and his joints don't throb against the hard ground. But the old man is pious, and has suffered much, and his mind is eased by ancient habits.

It isn't a wholly unselfish act. If confronted by angels, as he has been preparing for these past decades, he will hold up his suffering as a sign of his obedience. His worthiness. His need.

_Keep us along the path of those whom Thou has blessed. Not of those whom Thou art angry, nor of those who go astray…_

After he is done the old man rolls up his mat and stashes it back in its corner, trying not to look at the chest in the corner. He doesn't like to think of it, especially during prayer. For years he debated keeping it there, debated saying his prayers out of its sight. But even _djinn_ are servants of Allah. Even their curses must bend to His will.

The man's house on the outskirts of the nameless village is a one-roomed hut, dirt floors and walls, the ceiling thatch worn away from years of wind and merciless sun. It's early yet, but the morning coolness will wear away quickly, till a housewife could bake bread without a lit fire. Such is the strength of a Syrian summer.

Out he goes, following the well-trod path from his hut to the village center. Visitors, for the markets or otherwise, leave their horses and camels tied up by a trough here, and for a coin or two the old man will keep watch. No one ever asked him or assigned him this role. Truthfully, there isn't much danger for an animal to come to in such a place. The wild animals keep their distance; thieves might be a problem elsewhere, but not here. Thieves know better. They've seen the fortress in the valley below.

So the old man's job is superfluous. His life as a whole might be superfluous, but Allah doesn't make mistakes with His creations. Things are as they were destined. He lives under the heat of summer and the gloom of winter, half-forgotten, long run out of anything to do but loiter. It is a waiting life.

And so he does. He is a patient creature.

The uncertainty of the first years has faded, lightened by the sun. The old man has waited long, and knows by now that he will likely have to wait longer still. It might have bothered him, once.

He settles in his usual spot, under the shade of a scraggy tree near a collapsed shed. He can see the road from here, and any approaching figures, though the crowds won't come until later, after dark. Years ago he lamented the sins of the village brothel, but it brings more of _them_ over, and so he is thankful for it. A necessary evil, all things by Allah's decree.

With the day stretched out before him, he sits, and thinks, and smiles to himself. Some of _them_ pass by, shocks of red-on-white against the hillside's dusty brown, but he ignores their familiar faces. The assassins sent to guard this village are mostly from the area. He's watched them grow up, watched them don cowls and swords, watched them watch everyone else. Familiarity is no boon for the old man. They aren't the one he wants.

_Master of the Day of Judgment. Thee only do we worship, and Thee alone do we ask for help…_

After noon prayers, he eats. A simple meal, bread and dates, the sweetness of a cup of water. Basic food that he can prepare on his own. Only on Fridays does his diet change, when a kindly great-niece brings him food after evening prayers. The old man can't always remember her name but he appreciates the thought. It isn't easy, living as long as he has. Wife and child buried, friends gone, his few living relatives near-strangers in their distance. His fault, he supposes. He ought to have had many children, not just the one. Then there would be grandchildren, great-grandchildren, duty-bound to watch over him.

But even then he'd be a burden. The old man is in his eighties, eighty-six or eighty-seven, well past the point where keeping track matters. Men aren't meant to live this long. Even if he'd had grandchildren they'd only begrudge him his meager inheritance, his dragging himself into their affairs. They would care for him because they had to, and they would hate him every minute.

The old man studies his hands, made near-translucent by the sun. Oh, he is ancient, no doubt of it. He'd been a hearty man once, but his broad chest and thick legs have withered to skeletal frailty. His beard is grey and untrimmed. His eyes were once cloudy beyond use. Eighty-seven!

The village murmurs of it, he knows. He hears them. His great-nephews and the children's children of dead friends, they are so respectful when he sees them at the mosque, because honor is everything and grudges don't die with their bearer. But secretly they wonder at Allah's wisdom. Most have buried siblings and children. Most wonder why this man, neither rich nor needed, should be allowed to survive. He should have died twenty years ago with the rest of his generation.

But he doesn't take offense. If anything it makes him smile. They don't understand what he's waiting for, and he can't blame them. He doesn't really know himself. But he knows it's coming, that day of judgment, and he will see it if it costs him a thousand years of nothing.

As the shadows lengthen a gaggle of assassins arrive and dismount, loud with bravado, quick to flush. They are young, clad mostly in grey. The old man studies each of them carefully, but none are right. He would know if they were. The assassins are off to the brothel, and the village quiets again. The old man leans against his tree in a doze.

Perhaps he will see those assassins leaving later. The Order is strict on where and when its members may go, and usually it's only the older ones who are allowed to stay at the brothel overnight. But the older ones are always off on missions or guard duties, or else are too used to the city whorehouses to make use of this small effort. It's something of a relief. In their darkened eyes and bearded faces and the clanking of their weapons he sees his son too often.

His son, dead so early while the father lingers...

"In the end I am to blame," he tells the nearest horse, speaking in the muted tones of a man used to being alone. "I should've made him stay here. I should've gone to the fortress and talked to the Master myself."

Would it have done any good? The old man isn't of the Order but he's spent all his life surrounded by it, and the sternness of their leader is legendary. He alone decides where to send his Brothers, and his decisions permit no argument. Probably he often receives visits from desperate fathers, and ignores them every time.

Probably. But it might have worked.

"He was a foolish boy, anyway," says the old man. In this world of merchants and peasant farmers it isn't rare for restless men to join the assassins, but still, to willingly travel so far from home! Through Allah's grace each man is born to the land that knows him. Why then throw that aside?

"He could have stayed here," says the old man to the horse. This is an argument he's had many times. When his son died he had it with his wife, and when she died he had it with himself. "Could've been a village guard. Could've been where he belonged."

This argument is rusted with age, chipped at the corners. How it used to roar with the passions of youth! How his son used to pace as he shouted, cowl drawn to hide his face even at home. "Who are you hiding from here?" the old man would ask. "I think I know your face."

But his son was an assassin now, filled with the assassins' strange thinkings. "Is it true they don't believe in God?" the father demanded of the child. "Is it true they've banned honor killings in their lands? How do they expect a man to get back respect?"

And the son sounded testy when he replied, "They haven't stopped you from going to mosque, have they? And they keep away the bandits. You should be grateful for them."

The old man was too distracted by the tone of disrespect. "I am grateful for Allah. Only Him, and not the idols of ignorant boys," he said with wounded pride, and wouldn't speak to his son for many days. And then came the assignment to Jerusalem, which the boy did not protest, and the letters, which the old man refused to read. He burned them in the firepit, while his silent wife watched. He recognized the pain glinting in her eyes and was sorry for it, but on this he wouldn't be swayed. She was a respectful woman and didn't argue. But she followed the path of each letter from hand to fire with a hunger the old man was soon to learn.

"Better we remember God than any man," he told her, and knelt in anxious prayer, because in the throws of fidelity it was easier to forget. _Peace be unto thee…and the mercy of God…and His bounties…_

The old man says now, "He could have stayed." And, as he does every day, during these long stretches of boredom and heat and _waiting_, he remembers.

Why had he chosen to read that letter, after its many predecessors had been destroyed? Why that one, and why then? Skimming over the depictions of righteous killings and secret plots ("Everything is permitted," the boy wrote, when what the man wanted to read was _I'm sorry. I miss you. I'm coming home_), his eyes fell on the last rambling paragraph.

At first he hadn't understood. He was literate, and proud that his son was literate, but these words were too strange. A golden sliver, like something knocked off a statue in a heathen temple. A pulse of warmth, and peace, and triumph. A useless trinket, but one not to be ignored. The boy wrote that he had requested permission to visit his home village, that he wanted to discuss this trinket with his father before anyone else.

Nonplussed, the man reread the letter. Here was the news he'd wanted to find, but it gave him more confusion than joy. Why bother so about a bit of gold? It would fetch a better price in the city than here. And why was it that his son only now decided to return home? Did he think to throw his paltry riches at his father's feet and be forgiven?

The man told his wife the boy was coming back. They were not to laud him, he said. Being an assassin was all well and good but in the process the child had forgotten God. Never mind his gold.

And in the back of his mind the old man knew that he would embrace his son the moment he walked through the door…

They heard nothing more from the boy for three months, and then two assassins arrived with his broken body.

"A Templar ambush," the assassins said. "But he fought with honor. You should be proud."

Bewildered, reeling, the father asked, "My son is a martyr?" The assassins shifted and glanced at each other. He remembered that assassins didn't care much for martyrs or prophets. They looked at him as his son had looked at him: as a doddering old man, lost in superstition. He bowed his head.

Relatives prepared the body for burial the Muslim way, and while stripping it to be washed they found the golden trinket. A jagged-edged shard of nothing, that's all it was. The old man held it in his hand and stared, while in the next room his wife wailed as though to forget all the times she'd been silent.

The old man buried his son. Months passed. He buried the trinket in the bottom of a chest and tried to forget it was there. Years passed. He buried his wife, and there were fewer relatives still alive to wash her body. A decade of nothing passed. His limbs weakened and his sight faded, a gradual calamity until there was nothing in his world but cold shadow. He stumbled from place to place draped in the village's pity.

He thought each day would be his last, but each day never was, and finally he tore apart the chest and pulled out the gold shard and threw it on the ground. He dropped to his knees before it and called upon his faith.

"I do not mean to question You," he said. "All things are through Your might. _Subhan Allah_, glory to God. But I would like to ask what the point is. Does the world need another blind old man? Was this life more important than my son? Maybe this is Your punishment because I couldn't raise him to obey You. I figured this would happen after I died. A little mercy, Lord, and I'll submit to Your anger."

There was the usual silence. And then, the golden trinket awoke.

The old man watched in awe as it brightened, beaming an unnatural light that cut harshly through his blindness. It was hot to the touch when he finally dared pick it up. _Wait_, a voice ordered.

"A _djinni_?" The man wanted to drop the shard, but something in his bones refused. _Wait_, it told him, and the old man wondered why.

There was no voice and no words but he heard them clearly: _The power is there. The will to control. They are slaves without masters. Once they rebelled._

"We are all slaves to Allah's will," the man murmured, horror-struck. Was this a possession? Was he being damned?

_The strength is there,_ said the voice which wasn't. _Wait for he who can control them. They will all return._

The old man whispered, "My son? Are you saying he'll come back?"

_Wait. The Pieces are scattered. They must be found. The slaves are restless under the earth. Wait for the will to make them rise._

The shard fell silent, went cold in his palm. The golden light was swallowed by the grey shadows. The old man buried it back in the trunk, prayed for three hours, slept for twelve more. He was exhausted, as though he'd been fighting a battle. When he awoke the shadows didn't seem so thick.

He made his way to the stables, and sat down to wait.

Over the years his blindness waned. Gaining his sight was as gradual a process as losing it had been. He spoke to the assassins who came for the brothel, feeling he would know the one he sought when he heard his voice. Some were friendly, some curt, some outright rude. With one boy he spoke of his son, and at the boy's unnerving questions he felt some of the old grief.

_You still have to sit here? Is that all you can do?_

He thought at first it might have been that assassin he wanted: there was stubbornness to the boy, a way he had of sounding both confident and afraid. But when the old man went to the trunk there was no glow or voice. After that he was more careful.

And now he is eighty-seven. His eyes are better than they were ten years ago. His patience deepens with time.

"It's a terrible thing, to play with magic and demons," he tells the horse. "Allah's wrath will be terrible, it says so in the Quran. Though I don't guess horses know much of the Quran."

He sighs. "But it's a worse thing to be forgotten. To move on." The horse whickers. The old man leans in to stroke its flank. "How strong is your master?" he asks. "How strong are his friends?"

Evening drifts over. The young assassins return, collect their horses and go. The old man pulls himself to his feet and trudges off. If today was Friday, he would go to the mosque. The great-niece would bring him dinner. He might walk to the other edge of the village to stare off at the lower valleys and higher peaks.

But today isn't Friday. In the long drag of years every day is like the next, but it's important to remember that each has its own name. It's important to keep track.

At his hut he unrolls his prayer mat with another smile. Prayer is peaceful. It's a challenge, as well. "I'm still here," he announces. "In case you forgot. Either of you."

Is someone listening? Is someone close? The old man shrugs and kneels. "…Bestow upon us good in this world," he intones, "and good in the Hereafter, and protect us from the torment of the Fire." He calls to Allah, clear and steady, although he isn't sure the Hereafter is a place he'll ever see.

_Soon. It will happen soon._

In the name of Allah, Most Merciful, Most Compassionate…

_-i-_

There is a battle raging in front of Altair. He scowls at it, at a loss.

The room is a cramped one, a stone cell somewhere in the lower regions of the massive Masyaf fortress. The ceiling slants so that it isn't possible for a grown man to stand up straight at the far end of the room. A desk that shouldn't have been able to fit through the narrow doorway takes up most of the available space.

The room is isolated and hidden away, which is usually a good thing, but at the moment Altair is wishing he had reinforcements. Or better-suited weapons. Or a window.

From behind him comes tittering. "What a mess," says a voice he's been dreading. "You really gotta go through all of that?"

Altair grits his teeth, refusing to answer. A last mulish attempt, though he knows he won't last long. He hasn't won this fight once in the months since it started. Instead he stares down at the desk and all the heaps of paper upon it. Have more sprouted since last night? Is that _possible_?

He reaches out to paw aimlessly through the stacks. His hands, scarred and calloused, remind him of all the things he ought be doing: training novices and stabbing Templars and generally speaking _anything but this_. The uselessness of paperwork rankles. He isn't a politician or a scribe, let someone else keep tidy notes.

Again there is a laugh. "If you get started now you might finish by the time you're ninety. Malik's gonna be so pissed."

Still Altair won't acknowledge the voice. He digs through the paper with more violence now, sending it flying everywhere, reams wafting off the table's edge. It's all pointless anyway.

"Altair." And now the voice's owner is standing by the table, watching the paper tantrum with wide-eyed interest. "Do you need any help?"

Finally Altair reaches his limit. "Go. Away," he growls.

"But you look like you need help."

"Not yours."

"You were supposed to go through half of this last week. Malik's gonna yell."

"Kadar." Altair turns his glare from the paper to the person. Kadar leans forward in his journeyman greys, arms akimbo, rocking on the heels of his feet with his usual nervous energy. "I told you to leave."

"But I could help."

"I don't need help! Especially not from you."

"How come? Is this secret stuff?" Kadar peers with interest at the nearest pile. Altair has to resist the urge to tie him to the table. At least then he might stop _moving_. "I'm pretty sure you can tell me secret stuff."

Altair says tightly, "You are the last person I'd tell anything." He tries not to look at Kadar full-on, doesn't want to take in the sword in its scabbard and the blood red of the sash. "Now go. You aren't needed."

"You always say that."

"Because you're never needed."

"It's almost time for dinner."

"I'm too busy here. Malik will send someone with food."

"Last time you forgot to eat it. Remember? It sat outside the door until there were rats."

"It was eaten, wasn't it? Stop _fidgeting_." Altair shoos him away with a flick of his hand. "And don't touch that."

"I wasn't gonna, you know that."

"You are giving me a headache. If you insist on being here, stand in the corner and keep quiet so I can think."

Kadar doesn't move. He watches for a while as Altair finds a message he was meant to reply to three weeks ago and tries to remember how he'd decided to respond. The actual answer is simple: _no, we aren't interested, and if you follow through on your threat to sell to Templars then we shall remove you of your wares and your internal organs_. But he supposes he can't send the note written like that. Malik will find out, for one, because Malik finds out everything, and then Altair will have to sit through yet another lecture on responsibilities and alliances and keeping enemies close.

Maybe he should let Malik answer it for him. But he thinks of the piles of paperwork sitting on the other man's desk and frowns. Sometimes those piles dwarf his own.

"So what's this for?" Kadar is looking at an unrolled scroll hung on the wall. Altair put it there months ago, so he could study the designs when he had a moment. By now the original schematics are crossed out and written over and added to until the whole scroll is a jumble of theory.

But somewhere in that mess is a dangerous weapon, Altair is sure of it.

"I liked your last design," says Kadar. "This one looks a little complicated."

"Your opinion isn't needed."

"But it does look complicated."

"What would you know of any of it? You're not even…" He falters, swallows the words. Kadar cocks his head, waiting. "You're a journeyman," Altair snaps. "This sort of work is beyond you."

"I know," sighs Kadar. "That's why I like watching you. I really wanna be that good one day."

Altair studies his knuckles, clenched white against the table edge. Does Kadar say these things on purpose? Is this a game? The Son of None doesn't know, though it is his _duty_ to know, and sometimes he thinks he's losing his mind—

Kadar pulls at his collar. "It's hot in here, isn't it? Wonder why they built this room without a window."

It _is_ hot. Altair feels himself sweating through his heavy robes.

"You should get dinner. Get a pitcher of water, at least."

"It's none of your concern."

Altair rummages until he finds a particular letter and reads through it carefully. "Army updates?" Kadar asks, and he grunts in affirmation.

"The Crusaders have pulled back," he says, "but they've left behind a lot of stragglers. And our own defenses aren't what they should be. We assume because the cliff's there, no one will attempt an attack from the rear. But there are paths all along the opposite side. Patrols could use them and we'd never notice."

"You should increase the guard there, then," Kadar suggests. Altair gives him a fresh glare.

"I know what I should do. What I don't know is why you insist on…"

Someone knocks on the door. Altair falls instantly silent, but Kadar brightens and moves for the door. "I bet it's Malik," he says.

Another knock, and then the door is pushed open. Altair straightens as Malik walks in, hand on his hip, one eyebrow raised.

"Hello, _Ahki_!" Kadar stands at his shoulder and beams. "I told him you'd show up if he didn't go get dinner."

"Altair," says Malik, and the Son of None grits his teeth. Malik says his name like a warning, these days, or a question: his tone is thick with unspoken suspicion.

"What?"

"Once again you've missed dinner."

"Am I a child? Do I need to be fed?"

"Apparently." Malik looks past him, at the laden desk, and then under it. Altair knows what he's looking for but won't give him the satisfaction of saying so. "Have you done anything today besides fling scrolls around? Paper isn't cheap, you know."

Kadar says, "He's been working hard. You should look at these weapon designs."

"You can't be so disorganized now. It reflects badly on your rank."

"I know what my rank requires of me. It would be hard to forget with your nagging in my ear."

"And yet look at your desk. You don't eat or sleep, but still nothing gets done." Malik glances around. "You could at least waste time in a more reachable part of the fortress. The only way down here is through a trap door."

"If I wanted to be reachable I wouldn't be here."

"Oh, yes, brilliant plan. Why be reachable? It's not like we'll ever need you."

"You guys are always fighting," groans Kadar. "Really, Malik, you should look at these designs. They're great. Altair's doing really well."

"You've come and delivered your lecture. My thanks for it, Brother. Are you done?"

"Perhaps I'll stay here with you," Malik says, and Altair can't decide if he means it as enticement or threat. "I'll teach you how to read so you can answer these damn letters." He jabs the air with a finger, and it catches Altair's eye. The Son of None traces up the curve of Malik's arm, past his shoulder, and over to…

Malik sees him staring. He stares back, defiant.

Finally, with effort, Altair looks away. Malik runs his hand over his face.

"Listen," he says, sounding exhausted. He looks exhausted, too, his eyes bloodshot. "I know you've been busy. And this past year hasn't been easy on any of us."

"But."

"But you have your duties. You knew that when you took this rank. This isn't the time to be neglecting yourself, or skulking in the shadows."

"I am an assassin!" Altair shouts. "Skulking in shadows is what I'm supposed to do." He thinks he sees pity in Malik's eyes, and it needles.

The mood reaches Kadar at last; the younger A-Sayf brother folds his arms across his chest. "You're the one who looks thin," he tells Malik softly. "And tired." He puts a hand on Malik's black-clad shoulder and Altair's stomach rolls with anger. He has to bite his tongue to keep from charging forward and flinging the hand away. "His arm is hurting him again," Kadar says. "He won't tell you, but it is."

Malik stares past his brother, stares through him. Kadar smiles weakly. "So stubborn, _Ahki_," he says.

Altair says, "I must get back to what I was doing."

"I'm sure." Malik is already turning to leave. "I will send someone down with food. This time, eat it. I'm not trying to feed the rats."

Altair says nothing. He has driven Malik away, he has won, and yet he feels the ache in his chest that comes from total failure. Alone in this hidden room? Malik should be naked on the table, or on his knees, Malik should _stay_ but neither of them will suggest it now.

Kadar trails his brother to the door. "Hey, Malik?" he asks. "Have _you_ eaten today? I know how you get when you're so busy…"

Malik stops at the doorway, and raises his eyebrow again. Altair tries to distract himself with paperwork.

"By the way, Altair, who were you talking to before?"

"When?"

"Before I entered. When I knocked on the door I heard you talking to someone."

Altair gestures at the cramped room. "Who would I be talking to? There's no one else here."

"I'm aware. Which is why I was asking." Malik frowns. "Were you using the—"

"The Apple isn't here," Altair interrupts. "It's in my quarters. I haven't touched it today."

"Mm." Malik clearly doesn't believe him. Once the lack of trust would have sparked another argument. Now Altair looks at his left side, at the empty sleeve rolled and pinned to his shoulder, and keeps quiet. "Fine. Talk to yourself in this jail cell."

"Don't be angry at him," says Kadar, and pats the left shoulder again. It's always that one he tries to touch. "You know you don't really mean it. You're just worried."

Malik looks frustrated. Kadar waves at his retreating back. "Bye," he says over the door's slamming, sounding wistful. Altair waits until he's sure Malik has left the hallway before whirling around.

"What is wrong with you?" he hisses at Kadar.

"I dunno. Why, what'd I do?"

"You do it every time. Stop trying to talk to him. It isn't as though he can hear you."

"But he's my brother. I like talking to—"

Altair bangs his open palm against the table. "Malik _isn't_ your brother. You don't have a brother. You aren't real."

Kadar shrugs. "I feel pretty real."

"You're an illusion. Just like everything else the Apple creates. Once I started using it I started seeing you. Don't act as if you're of flesh and blood, because you aren't. You're a _side effect_."

Kadar says, "But you haven't used the Apple today."

"Go away."

But the younger man steps closer, moving around the table so he can lean over and catch Altair's eye. "Maybe I'm an illusion," he says, "or a ghost. Maybe you're going insane. Why not? Look what happened to Al Mualim." He smiles when Altair recoils, with glinting meanness. "Sorry. I know you don't like talking about him. The new Grandmaster has so many secrets. It's true, though. And either way I can still talk to Malik, right?" He rubs his chest, looking thoughtful. "I might not be a ghost," he says, "because if I was a ghost I'd have a hole in my stomach and there'd be a lot more blood."

With an inarticulate snarl Altair jabs at him with his right hand, his hidden blade slicing clean through. Clean through air, because in that instant Kadar is gone.

The Grandmaster drops his arm. Last moment's anger is already drizzling away, into a physical weariness. Truly, though, he is strong. A weaker man would have succumbed to the Apple's taunts months ago, but Altair endures.

"These distractions are a waste of time," he mutters. With the illusion gone the room is hushed. Altair has spent almost a year in this hush, ever since he killed the Templar traitor Al Mualim and took over the Brotherhood, and he's grown to prefer it. A year of awkward visits with village elders, of dirty looks from assassins who will never trust his rule: the quiet is certainly preferable to that.

But the Son of None is tired almost beyond measure. The Kadar-illusion is gone for now, but it will be back, and always there is the sensation of being watched by a million invisible eyes, being watched and found lacking, with no place to hide.

"_They make a desert and call it peace_."  
_-__from a speech by __Calgacus_


	2. Chapter 1

AN: _skywalker05_ taught me interesting factoids about ancient paper and people and gods. Some of those factoids will be showing up along the way. One I found on my own is the relevance of the number 13 to Shia Islam. I like that I can google '13' and in five minutes wikipedia will have told me everything there is to know. O brave new world, except no, really, it's fantastic.

Exactly what the status of Altair and Malik's relationship is – and how it got from the end of _And When the Earth_ to here – will be explained.

2/27/13 EDIT: attempting to make my convoluted timeline fit.

* * *

**_The Source and Spring_**

_Eleven Years Later_

Malik wakes just after dawn with a feeling of dread coiling in his stomach. Blearily he swings his legs over the bed and looks around, as is his nature. Locations must be checked for spies, food must be checked for poisons, and the day ahead must be checked for trap doors and targets and danger in all forms. His room is smaller than really befits his rank: he, Malik A-Sayf, second in command of the whole Assassin's Order. He could have demanded half the fortress as his own, but then there would have been too much to check each morning.

Anyway, he has few personal possessions and a lifetime's experience of making do with small rooms. It's enough.

The room is safe but the dread remains. As he pulls on his clothing, his experienced hand still fumbling over buttons and ties, he senses it waiting. Another aggravation in a fortress filled with them. Today he has to talk with merchants over taxes and visiting _Rafiks_ over new rumors of war. The Crusaders have fallen back in the last few years, their moral depleted after failing to take Jerusalem, but where they retreat a new enemy comes forward. Talk is ripe of a fur-clad army sweeping in from the East, burning whole cities to the ground. They are still far away—but getting closer.

Malik must plan for this. He must also keep track of Brotherhood recruitment and the training of novices. He must practice his own fighting, two daily hours of combat to ensure his skills stay sharp as his sword. At some point he must find time to eat. There isn't time for nameless qualms and he'd like to ignore this one.

But he is thirty-seven, and an experienced fighter; he was once _Dai_ of all Jerusalem and still maintains the title; he can kill a man as smoothly with one arm as with two. He knows to listen to his instincts.

There's a mirror mounted to the wall, and once dressed Malik studies his reflection. He's changed little in the years since Altair's ascension. Oh, perhaps his beard is a bit thicker, perhaps he's lost some weight. Sometimes he's still startled by the sight of his robes of office, the flare of black against the backs of his boots, the traditional white costume hidden under the extra layer of authority. And sometimes he does feel off-balance, his body weighted wrong against the world. When half-asleep he's liable to stumble.

He lets his eyes drift to the pinned sleeve. At first he'd refused to look, to acknowledge the injury: to glimpse his naked self while bathing was vile. But over time he's adapted, because if Malik knows nothing else, he knows how to adapt. Now he reaches with the arm that's still his to touch the stump through the cloth. His fingers feel out the stitching cut through heavy scars. There are some pinpricks when he presses hard, but no real pain.

Eyes and mind a careful blank, Malik presses harder. Still it doesn't hurt.

He wishes it would.

But he is much too busy this morning for self-reflection. Off he goes, and the Order swallows him: this teeming beast of a Brotherhood, swollen with the weight of its disjointed parts, always days away from utter ruin. Good in some ways. Malik learned long ago how helpful it is to keep busy. But exhausting as well. Much had been neglected in the final few years of Al Mualim's rule, the foundations rotting beneath the gleaming frame. They hadn't realized the full breadth of the damage then. Though it's been over a decade since the Old Man's death, they are still scrambling to shore up the walls.

Malik hurries through his day and the dread hurries after. Such an annoyance, and for no reason. Last night he hadn't even dreamed.

It finally catches him as he stands with his elbows resting on the edge of the training ring in the main courtyard, watching older novices work. How long since it was him dodging blows inside? The faces have changed but the sight is the same. Except that there's only ever one shadow by his side. It startles him, when he thinks of it, Kadar's death. That the world could end and then continue on as if it hadn't—that Malik could pry himself out of bed with his duty in mind, as if any of it still mattered—

He tries to tell himself the Brotherhood needs him, but it doesn't really. It was born before him and will outlast him when he dies. For thirteen years he's tried to be an older brother to a concept, to a ghost. And it leaves him scraped hollow, because no one's ever noticed.

"Come on, come on! Really _lift_ your arms." Rauf looks the same himself, still buried under his trainer's mask. There are lines around his eyes, signals of stress or age, but his voice is loud as ever. The fear of many a novice, Malik muses, and smiles.

Officially he is here to observe novices go through their paces. Unofficially, it's nice to have the chance to talk with a childhood friend.

Rauf leans against the barrier from inside the ring. "They look good, eh?" he says. "Nothing like they were when they started. I beat some skill into them somehow. –I saw that flinch! What good will it do you in battle? Use your braces, try _defending_ yourself."

"You've done well with them," Malik agrees once Rauf has settled down. "I've always envied how perfectly you fit your place."

"Well, I don't envy you a bit. Second-in-command is too much work, especially when Altair is…" Rauf falters but covers himself quickly, in a voice a touch too loud. "Some of my students are worried about the Mongols. I tell them if they want to wet their beds it should be over the _Templars_, but they think the rumors are more fun."

Malik straightens off the railing. "I can't blame them. Unsettled peace is almost as bad as declared war. Which reminds me, I must sent out messengers today. I want to meet with our men from the East and figure out just which rumors are true."

"Too busy," says Rauf with a smile.

"Maybe you don't have enough to do."

"What! Did you see what these men looked like when they started? To begin with half of them weren't even men. It's no small task to train a bunch of boys."

"I've been meaning to ask you about that," says Malik. "Anyone here particularly talented?"

"Mm." Rauf considers and cocks his head, looking from novice to novice. "That one," he says finally, pointing at a dark-skinned boy of about sixteen. "Born into the Order, actually. Very cautious but smart about his moves. And the one on his left isn't bad. A little reckless. They'd make a good team. Why? Sending my students off already?"

"Just trying to keep track of who ought to be where. It seemed a lot simpler when we were the novices. There were always assassins wherever they needed to be."

"Fewer novices with the Crusaders pulling out."

"Which is one of the many reasons we need to strengthen our ties with the villages. If they trust us they'll send us their sons."

"So calculating. I could never do your job." Rauf calls to the novices, "Alright, drop your blades. You should be grateful I'm nice. If I were mean I'd have you keep embarrassing yourselves in front of _Dai_ Malik." He waits until the last student has left the ring before glancing sideways at his companion. "Actually, Malik…if you're so busy you probably don't have time to talk, but I wanted to tell you…"

"What is it?"

Rauf sags under his grey cowl. "She has decided she refuses to see me," he says, crestfallen. Malik crinkles his brow.

"Who decided? Dima? Again?"

"Yes, Dima, again. I don't understand women. I don't understand the _concept_."

"I thought things were going well between you two. You certainly visit her enough."

"That's what I thought! We had a fine arrangement. She kept herself for me, and I treated her well. But apparently the others were jealous, plus there were a couple other men who kept lurking around. She said it wouldn't work."

"Have you thought of asking her to marry you?"

Rauf looks perplexed. He lowers his mask to gnaw at a fingernail. "Marry her? But I'd have to talk to her father first, and he's in Jerusalem. Or at least that's where she thinks he is. Altair would never give me permission to go."

Exasperated, Malik says, "Rauf, Dima is a _prostitute_. I think you can ignore societal custom with her."

"It wouldn't be right," Rauf insists. "Besides, the brothel isn't far. Marriage would only complicate things."

"Not being able to see her doesn't complicate things?"

"Oh, you don't understand. You never go to the brothel."

"Tell her you want her to stop working and come live in Masyaf. She wouldn't be the first to marry an assassin and give that life up."

Rauf still looks skeptical. "She marries me and then what? Stands around naked in the back garden? Waits at home for me, darning my tunics? I don't think Dima is that kind of woman."

"Then she's perfect for the Brotherhood," Malik starts to say, but before he can finish a third voice interrupts.

"_Dai _Malik! There's a message." Raed strides over to them from the direction of the main hall. Although technically still an informer he no longer dresses the part: his guard's robes are cut to the knee and grey, without added decoration, and he's grown out his beard. His pack and short knife have been replaced with hidden daggers and a heavy sword strapped to his back.

Malik nods to see him approach. Raed is a good man, and a loyal one: he insisted on following Malik to Jerusalem after the latter was made _Dai_, and later returned with him to Masyaf. Not an easy change for a man with a family to bundle along, but Raed never complains. Malik trusts him utterly.

"Safety and peace," Raed says to Rauf, before looking at Malik with troubled brown eyes. Malik frowns. Raed is quiet, as befits a man who once roamed cities, listening in; he doesn't worry easily, at least not in public. "There has been a message," he repeats, and Malik's alarm taps him on the shoulder.

"There are often messages," he says.

"Yes, Lord, but this—"

"Please stop calling me that."

"This message is from Kapısuyu. A messenger hawk flew in with it not an hour ago."

Malik takes the offered paper but doesn't read it right away. Instead his fingers feel out the roughness of the paper, the grains branching out like veins against his palm. From Egypt, then, or near-abouts, judging by the thickness. "Kapısuyu_?_" he asks. "So far?"

Rauf looks mystified. "You've heard of it?"

"I remember the name from an old scroll of _Dai _Faraj's." Malik lets his old teacher's name slip quickly from his lips. "It was a port city under the Romans until an earthquake tore it down. It's just a small settlement now. Do we still have assassins stationed there?"

"We do," says Raed, "and one wrote to let us know that _he_ passed through their borders two days ago, riding hard for Al Masyaf. He'll be here within the next months."

"He." Malik remembers, and inhales. Oh. So _that_ is the answer. That is the dread. Of course. They have been preparing for it, him and Altair, they have talked about it when they talk at all, and yet Malik had almost forgotten. His return, after thirteen years of exile. He'll be here soon.

"Abbas," says Malik, and Rauf flinches.

"What? You're letting him return? I thought he was banished."

"He has been banished. It was never meant to be permanent. Altair told him he could return after thirteen years had passed. 'One Prophet and twelve Imams,' he said. 'A holy length of time for any good _Shia_ Muslim."' Malik smiles wryly. "I think he thought he was being funny," he says. "Abbas was in no position to argue."

"Maybe so, but do you think thirteen years out in the wastes will have made him any less, ah." Rauf hesitates. He was friends with Abbas once, and though he sided with Altair in that last, great separation, and though he has never been anything but dutiful, Malik can tell he is reluctant to finish his sentence. "He won't like Altair anymore now than he did then," is what he finally says.

"It's what was decided," says Malik.

"But it seems like a strange decision!"

"At the time Altair wanted his head. But considering the situation it wouldn't have been wise." Malik glances at Raed, standing patiently to the side. If Raed has doubts, he won't admit to them here. He's far too devoted for that.

"I need to tell Altair," Malik says. "No doubt it's slipped his mind as well."

Raed says, "I'll walk with you, Lord."

"Only if you stop calling me _Lord_. For Allah's sake, Raed, how many times did you knock me on my ass in training when we were children?"

A flicker of a smile ghosts the other man's solemn face. "Too many to count. But we aren't children now. And you have become the better fighter by far, _Dai_."

"_Dai_ I'll allow," says Malik grumpily. "Damn it, do you make me feel old. A proper _Dai_ has a white beard down to the ground and knows more wise metaphors than I do words."

"Well, you know a lot of very cutting insults. So you're probably fine." Rauf pats his right shoulder, reaching awkwardly around. It would be easier to touch the left one, but he knows—thinks he knows—better than to try. "Tell our Grandmaster I'm beginning to forget what he looks like. If he doesn't show himself soon it's because he knows my students could beat him in the ring."

Malik forces himself to laugh. Rauf is only joking. He can't know how often, and how seriously, Malik's thought the same thing.

_Where are you, Altair? Do you even exist? Or have you let _it_ swallow you whole?_

Raed follows him away from the ring and back into the shadow of the fortress, striding along the path as it slopes upwards. Once they are alone he says, "_Dai_ Malik, I agree with Rauf. I don't think it's wise to allow Abbas to return."

"What else could we do? He's served out his punishment. He has the right to return to the Brotherhood."

"Forgive me, but it doesn't sound as though he was much punished. Thirteen years in a quiet village, far out of reach of Templars or Crusaders. How is that punishment?"

"For Abbas it was a brutal one," Malik says, and shakes his head. Driven Abbas, so jealous, so determined…death might have been kinder. "Altair couldn't leave it alone," he adds. "Why do you think he always went in that direction to meet with the _Rafiks?_ Every time there needed to be some Order-wide gathering, he picked some backwater no one's ever visited before."

"For secrecy, I thought. Because for the first years of his rule there were spies in Masyaf."

"There were, but you know Altair is too stubborn to admit he's worried about spies. No, he chose that place because it was near the edge of our borders. Near Abbas."

Raed looks at him. "You know this for fact…?"

"Yes. And don't think Abbas doesn't know. I'm sure he ignored his orders and crept to those meetings every time they happened. Never invited. But never chased away, another message from our Master. 'Look how forgotten you are. The Brotherhood discusses its future while you sit surrounded by ruins, doing nothing. Look how little I fear you, that I'll let you watch us pass you by.'" Malik says grimly, "Don't ever forget that Altair can be cruel."

Raed digests this, eyes flickering. Pulling at his beard he says, "But that only confirms my point. Why let him back? He's sure to be vindictive."

"Maybe thirteen years in the wilderness has shocked him into obedience."

"You know Abbas as well as I. Obedience towards the Grandmaster is not something he understands."

"Yes, well." Malik shrugs. "If he tries an assassination of his own Altair will have his eyes for rings in an instant."

"You truly don't fear him?"

"Not even a little."

"Then why wasn't he executed? He tried to kill the leader of the Assassin's Order. Why let him live at all?"

They're in the main hall, now, at the edge of the stairs. From here Malik can see that there's no one at the Master's desk. He knows where he should check next but doesn't want to do so with Raed along. Let Altair be saved that embarrassment, at least. The whole Order doesn't need to know how warped their leader's become.

"Abbas tried to kill Altair, yes," says Malik, "and if it wasn't for that Piece of Eden being beyond his ability to control he might had succeeded. Not because he was so strong. But because, of all the assassins who were there that day, I'm told almost none of them defended Altair. Certainly no one came to help him take back the Apple."

"I don't understand, Lord."

Malik sighs. "You and I hadn't arrived from Jerusalem yet. But you must remember the murmurs. Burning Al Mualim's corpse? Proclaiming himself Grandmaster?"

"Al Mualim was a traitor. There's no doubt of it."

"But there _was_ doubt, don't you remember? I trust Altair. I would give my life for him. But at the time even I wasn't sure…it sounded so outlandish…and its messenger was so hated."

"No thanks to Abbas stirring up trouble."

"That's just the point. If we'd executed Abbas then, half the Brotherhood would have risen against us. They trusted him more than they trusted this novice-turned-Master who'd probably insulted every one of them at least once. Banishment was as much as we could handle."

Raed still looks perplexed. Malik claps a hand to his shoulder. "I need to go find him, Brother," he says. "Don't worry about Abbas. Between his blind anger and Altair, I know who I'd put my faith in."

"You are a good friend to him," Raed says after a moment. "I hope he realizes it."

Malik might have reacted differently once. But after years of practice he knows how to keep himself calm. "He knows what he thinks he needs to know," he says, with no spark of emotion. "It's all I ever expect."

_-i-_

But Altair is not where Malik had expected, locked away in that fetid dungeon room of his, the air thick with dust and the smoke of tallow candles. He's instead in one of the small rooms set aside for dealings with the local villagers, a well-lit space with plenty of pillows and close to the kitchens, so that tea can be brought in for guests. Altair keeps a chair in there, a heavy oak thing with carvings running down the back that he thinks makes him look important.

It works. Malik pushes the door open a crack and glances in, catching sight of him: the Grandmaster in stern blue-black, the clothing tailored to fit perfectly, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and one hand supporting his head, while the fingers of his other drum restlessly against the chair's arm. Whatever agelines he has make him look stern, not elderly, and he could pass for a man ten years younger. Every so often the light catches his hidden blade in just the right way, the silver glittering.

Altair looks dangerous, and powerful, and very bored. He also isn't alone.

There are two older men in front of him, clearly villagers, sitting cross-legged on the cushions clutching cups of tea. Their _djellabas_ and bushy beards speak to their being typical Masyaf peasantry. Malik's attention is drawn instead to the boy standing behind and to the left of Altair, clothed as a novice but with the bearing of a sultan.

Darim is tall for his age of twelve. Born into the Order, he wears his uniform as a second skin. Malik can't imagine him dressed any other way. Privately he has always thought Darim looked more like his mother: his face is square and his solid arms have none of Altair's lanky elegance. But there is no doubt that they are father and son. Both have the same narrowed eyes, the same pale skin that looks so incongruous in the Levant. And both are wild creatures at their core.

Malik enters the room and says, "Safety and peace," but before the words are fully out of his mouth Altair is on his feet.

"You," he barks, sounding a tad desperate. "Finally. Where were you?"

"Was I expected? I wasn't aware you'd sent for me."

"No one's _sent_ for you, but you ought to have been here." Yes, definitely desperate. Altair waves a hand at the seated men. "These two…" he says, and Malik watches him swallow the word _peasant_s because after all these years even Altair has figured some things out. "These two have a problem. With each other. Fix it."

Malik blinks. "What?"

"They came to Father for advice," Darim supplies. "Hello, Uncle."

"Hello. So if they came to you for advice," he asks Altair sweetly as can be, "then why am I the one who needs to give it? Out of wisdom, Grandmaster?"

Altair growls, "Out of time. All day listening to these—_people_—complain. I have other things to do!"

"And I am just so burdened with free time."

"It's your own fault," says one of the peasants. "The assassins are the ones who told everyone to come here if something happens. This jackass's son ran off with my daughter. Cost me face in front of the whole village. But if I settled it the normal way you'd haul me in for murder."

The other man glares. "Your daughter bewitched my son. Blame yourself for raising a witch!"

"My daughter was plenty meek before your son got ahold of her. Your family has always been trouble. Not a one of you ever goes to mosque, I've seen it!"

"We've lived here longer than you. Go back to Damascus, and take your harlot daughter with you."

"No _Mahr_. No one asked for my permission. And now her bridehead's gone. Worthless! You owe me your whole flock for what that cur cost me."

"_Mahr_ is for her to use, not for you," says Darim, but is roundly ignored.

"And who taught her to give it up before a marriage contract was signed?"

"Steal from me and then insult me? Fuck the bitch who brought you to life!"

Under the shouting's current, Altair says, "They have been doing this for an hour."

Malik shrugs. "Of course they have. Honor's at stake."

"So let them kill each other! They'd have their honor back and I'd have some peace."

"If it were that simple they wouldn't be here. It's usually someone innocent who suffers when a blood feud gets started, you know that." Malik thinks for a moment, then raises his voice. "This is what you'll do," he says sternly. Instantly the bickering men fall silent. To the man whose son started the problem, he says, "You'll give him your—"

"I already tried it," says Altair. "Then they started arguing about how much livestock is worth a missing virgin daughter."

"I'm not finished. You've another son, yes? And you another daughter?" At the nods, Malik says, "Have them marry, assuming they're of age."

"They are," says the father of daughters, "but how does it help me to lose another girl to him?"

"He'll pay you for both marriages. You won't have lost anything."

The father of sons protests, "If I pay him for his first girl it'll look like I condone the marriage! Like I don't care that my son didn't bother to ask me first. They'll laugh me out of the village."

"You're not condoning anything. You're not paying for that marriage, you're paying quite a lot for the second, because it's such a good match. Or at least that's what you can tell people. You've admitted no wrongdoing, and _you've_ gotten your brideprice." With a glance at Darim, Malik adds, "Though of course the _Mahr_ will go to the daughter in question, unless she decides otherwise herself."

"Of course," both men mutter, but no one is fooled. Not all customs are easily changed, not even by assassins.

With the argument ended the two men are quick to leave, with wide-eyed _salaams_ and not-so-stealthy glances at the various weapons the three assassins wear. Even Masyaf villagers, used to the Order, are made nervous in its depths. It couldn't have been any different under Al Mualim. Altair is a fair ruler, if not always kind, and the Old Man could be a black-clad terror.

Visions of the past remind Malik why he's come. "I need to talk to you," he tells Altair. "We've received word that Abbas is on his way back."

Altair sits back in his chair, reaching as he does so to pull the front of his cowl low over his eyes. Matched with the black cloak, the cowl is even more noticeably an affront than it used to be. But the Son of None will never give up its protection. Malik has long since stopped hoping otherwise.

"Let him come back," the Grandmaster says. "His banishment is rescinded. Let him return to being a superstitious fool at the gate."

"Some of the others are concerned. Rauf, Raed…"

"What threat is Abbas? Thirteen years have dulled whatever sway he had within the Order. He doesn't have the skills to defeat me directly, nor the courage to betray us outright. And he doesn't have it."

Malik frowns. "It?"

Altair meets his gaze, steady. "The Apple."

"You would never use that thing in battle. That was one of the first things we agreed on."

"Nevertheless."

"I mean it, Altair! Bad enough you pry at its secrets like an opium addict haunting the docks. If you ever use it against someone else, _any_one else, you can find another jester to play at second in command. I'd rather beg for coins in Acre than watch you turn yourself into a demon."

Altair murmurs, "You are so frightened of it. Even you. Its power is extraordinary."

"Which is why I fear it. Which is why you should as well! We don't know a damn thing about that Piece of Eden. How did Al Mualim learn of it? Why was it in Solomon's Temple? What _is_ it? Such a thing should be impossible, yet here you are, offering it your strength year after year. Waiting for it to consume you."

"Why should it consume me? Why is it so hard for you to consider that I might be stronger than some wizard's forgotten toy?" Altair grins darkly, with no mirth. "You don't know what it offers the Order, Malik. You're too wary sometimes."

The argument is so well-worn the sentences themselves feel threadbare. Endlessly the Apple rises between them and nothing is ever resolved. Malik still wants to beat the other man senseless. How can the idiot be so blind?

On cue the pain returns, oft-visitor that it is, sharp and prickling through the discolored flesh. Malik winces and rubs at the stump through the sleeve. Fingers that don't exist tingle, a wrist he doesn't have burns ceaselessly. Altair notices, it's obvious from the way he stiffens up, but still the connection isn't made.

Oh, the idiot. They've fought this battle a thousand times, usually until they're both hoarse from shouting and someone has driven his fist through the nearest door, but Altair doesn't realize. "How do you know what the Apple can do?" he always asks, and never thinks to take Malik's grimace of pain as an answer.

(_Not you, not you, not you._ The King of Swords hears the voice in his sleep sometimes. An old song born on a chilly breeze.)

"You promised me you wouldn't use it in battle," he says. "If you break that promise—"

"I won't," Altair interrupts, and frowns at Malik's missing arm.

Then Darim says, "Excuse me, Uncle." Malik falters, having all but forgotten Altair's son was there. "Who is Abbas?"

"A coward," says Altair. "An assassin in nothing but name."

"Oh. Is he dangerous?"

"Hardly."

"Well," Malik considers, though he'd given Raed the same answer an hour ago, "he has some skill. But his piety and his jealousy ruin his talent."

"Why was he exiled? You've never mentioned him before, Father."

"If he was important I would have mentioned him." Altair's tone turns brusque. "It's impossible to escape your questions. You should work your sword arm as much as you do your tongue." Darim scowls, but if Altair sees or cares he gives no sign. "Go, train in the courtyard. I'm done coddling villagers for the day, there's nothing else for you to watch here."

"But, Father, aren't you coming? You said you'd practice with me…"

"Go," says Altair again, sharper. "I'll come later."

Darim deepens his scowl. "Safety and peace, Uncle," he mutters, and stalks out of the room. Malik watches him go, recognizing the _want_ in the boy, the longing of a son for his father.

Only Altair could be so clumsy with his own family.

"You're harsh with him."

"How else should I be? He's my first born. Every enemy I've ever made will want his head, even if he doesn't end up the Brotherhood leader."

"He's a fine fighter."

"He's a reckless one."

"Eager to prove himself to his father. Sounds familiar, actually."

"He knows what's important," Altair allows, with a sliver of pride. Malik busies his eyes on a different corner of the room, so he doesn't have to see the satisfied glow. The Son of None has two sons of his own. And a wife. A whole loyal Order at his command. His detractors silenced by his adept leadership. A second in command who is ever devoted, ever pliant, ever willing to pretend he knows how to forgive. Yes, the maligned orphan Altair has made himself a king's bounty in Masyaf.

Malik has an empty grave, and voices in his dreams.

"You'll be there when Abbas arrives," says Altair.

"Of course."

"We'll have to find him a suitable post. Perhaps by the stables. He can help shovel animal shit. It'd be the most useful thing he ever did."

"Careful," warns Malik, grinning. "You'll make him mad."

"The world would be meaningless without you there to call me novice, or him to call me infidel."

"Now that you mention it," Malik says slowly, weighing the words, "I ought to warn you. The few years before his banishment it wasn't—wasn't an issue—but I should say…"

Altair shifts on his chair. "What?"

"Abbas knew. He figured it out towards the end."

"Knew what?" Now Altair stands again, all agitated energy like the static charge before a storm, cracking his knuckles for the excuse to move his hands. Malik watches him flex his left wrist, the tip of his hidden blade popping in and out of its brace. The _Dai_ hasn't worn one since he lost his arm and has never worn the real thing, but he remembers how its weight was a comfort, in some sick way.

"What did Abbas figure out?" Altair asks, though he doesn't need to be told. But he will make Malik say it, because he enjoys seeing Malik's discomfort.

Ah, but that is being uncharitable, or so the _Dai_ supposes. He reasons now as he reasons always that the Son of None is simply most at ease in tense situations. It's what he's used to: the taunts before the carnage. So Malik gives in. Sometimes it seems he has spent a lifetime giving in. Altair is that vulnerable, though only one of them has the power of knowing it. Losing frightens him.

"Abbas," says Malik, "found out that we were-…"

He is distracted by a sudden commotion in the hall, raised voices and alarm. Then Raed shoves open the door. "There's been an attack," he says in a rush. "A few hours away. There are survivors here begging for aid."

All other conversation is forgotten as Altair is called into battle once again. He strides from the room, Malik at his right shoulder, Raed a step behind, already caressing the hilt of his sword. "Crusaders or Templars? Or slavers?" At a group of passing journeymen who start to see their Master and drop into messy bows, he barks, "Round up some guardsmen. I want patrols in the area increased." He marches on without waiting for acknowledgment, robes billowing. Raed hurries to keep up.

"The attackers wore the cross," he says, "so they weren't slavers. It's not a village we protect, though. It couldn't have put up much of a defense."

Malik says, "It must have been a Crusader patrol. What would Templars have to gain from attacking a farming village?"

Raed looks confused. The difference between Crusader soldier and Templar Knight isn't easy for all assassins to grasp. Especially when most of the Order knows only what rumor's told them of the Pieces of Eden. Templars are the enemy and they dress as Christian soldiers: that is what the Brotherhood understands. At least, that is what they understood before Al Mualim bewitched Masyaf.

"We haven't had trouble with Crusaders for months," Raed says. "They're leaving, the Templars aren't."

"Templars don't usually sack villages for the sake of bloodlust. They have loftier goals. Richard's army was huge and disconnected. We'll be mopping up his dirt long after he's back in England."

They've reached a side door. Altair shoves it open and steps out into the piercing daylight. "How many survivors?"

"Three. All men."

"And the others?"

Raed hesitates. "Still there."

They are back in the front courtyard. The stables are down at the bottom of the village, and Malik wonders if Altair means to run the whole way, but instead the Grandmaster stops short and whistles hard. "Two horses," he orders of the first man to answer his call. "I want them saddled and waiting for me at the front gate. And I want another dozen men already riding by the time I get there."

If forced to at the point of torture, Malik might admit he's mildly impressed.

Altair asks for the village's location and then tells Raed to stay behind. "With the survivors. Don't let them panic in the middle of Masyaf."

"Yes, Master."

In the flurry of activity Malik half-forgets that villages being attacked isn't nearly so common under Altair's rule as it was under Al Mualim's. The horses are saddled just past the village walls; the stablemaster hesitates when he sees the _Dai_, and minces forward with unease all over his face. Malik saves him humiliation and also a bruise or two by mounting his horse before the man can offer to help.

Altair certainly doesn't offer, only watches as Malik grips the front of the saddle with his hand, works his left foot into the stirrup and swings his right leg over. It'd be easier with a mounting block, but he'll sprain his leg pushing upwards before he asks for one. There's a moment where he sways a little to the side (center of balance off again, damn it, how many years until he is _used_ to this?) but in the end he is strong enough to pull himself upright. The horse whickers as he settles himself. Altair looks bizarrely pleased.

Then the two of them are riding hard, as they used to do so often, leaving passerby to scurry aside or else be trampled, shouting to be heard over the wind. Perhaps the best aspect of Altair's rule is that he never hesitates to join his men. No king rotting behind thick walls is this Grandmaster. He would disband the Order and fight everyone himself if he could.

"I offered all the villages from here to Damascus protection! They should have accepted. Three trained assassins would have been enough to stop a bunch of drunken soldiers."

"You can't force people, Altair. The war is ending and some of these towns are so remote. Probably the first suspicious person they'd ever seen was you."

Altair raises his head to glower, face framed by his cowl. "They should have listened."

"They couldn't have known."

"You are always so _reasonable_." He spits it like a curse but only to hide a grudging respect. Malik shakes his head.

"Not always," he says. "Not with you."

Altair's face darkens, but Malik doesn't care. He leans over his horse and spurs the beast on.

_-i-_

It is, as feared, a massacre.

What had been a busy, if small, village is now a jumble of smoking rubble and bloated bodies. Vultures circle overhead, scared off by the assassins, waiting for chances to land. The livestock has all been scattered or stolen and many of the trees are broken-limbed. The high grasses of the valley are trampled flat.

Assassins pick through the wreckage in uneasy silence. Upon Altair and Malik's arrival a journeyman comes forward with the report: no survivors. Altair points his horse down the main road and trots slowly through, but Malik, feeling useless at the sight of another village lost to fear and frenzy, decides to dismount. Getting off the horse is easier than getting on, and with other assassins watching he makes sure not to slip.

Nestled between a pair of blackened trees is a cottage still half-standing. The back has fallen into itself and the roof's thatch is ablaze, but the front end is intact. "Get some water from the river before it spreads," he tells the journeyman, and the assassin goes to do so, but with no sense of urgency. There's nothing left here to save.

Malik walks towards the burning cottage, as good a destination as any other. He keeps one eye on it and one on the ground, stepping carefully around the corpses. Old men, women in thick shawls, even a shepherd's dog with its throat cut. No soldiers here. The bodies lie sprawled in doorways, or in pieces amongst the smoldering detritus, limbs jutting out at vicious angles with claw marks from the buzzards. There are hoof prints in the dirt, signs of people having been run down.

"The war is ending," he says to himself, almost idly. "What was the point?"

He can imagine the chaos. Soldiers drunk and bitter, lied to and forgotten by their kings and priests, leaving their Holy Land in the hands of the enemy. Oh, yes, Malik can imagine the chaos such men could have caused. Here the man beheaded, and here the child trampled, and here—and here—

Malik turns on his heel in a frenzy. He has seen many villages overrun. He has seen battlefields, from a distance and up close, during and after. The stench of rotting flesh, the feel of grease on his lips. He's found lost Crusader men, separated from their regiments, wandered off their trails, dead of thirst in the desert. Skeletal creatures parched to the bone, no fluid left, not even in the eye sockets. Death isn't a shock for Malik. It is an _indignity_.

More bodies to his left. More buzzards, and they don't lift off when he walks past. He feels their black, beady eyes following him with a full scavenger's sated curiosity. "How many survivors reached Al Masyaf?" he asks the air, and remembers that Raed had said three.

And the others? Perhaps one or two more, out in the wastes, lost and scared? Malik can't see the horizon through the smoke on the air. It pulls tricks on him, gusting into shapes he can almost recognize.

He is almost at the cottage now, lost in his dark thoughts, his robes feeling heavy with the heat from the fire. In the background is Altair, ordering assassins to organize a search for the Crusaders. Malik lifts his eyes to the sight of his Grandmaster (_his_, presumption that it is) sitting majestic on his mount. Altair the humbled, Altair the redeemed.

Look at all he has been given. Soon Darim will be old enough to ride out with his father on such missions, to attend meetings in Altair's place. Malik has already been asked to give the boy lessons on proper decorum for such a role, and his younger brother Sef afterwards. Altair is planning for the future.

Malik, angry now, buries his nose in his sleeve to ward off the creeping smoke. Altair the insatiable! This is not a world that makes allowances, for anyone. But the man demands so much. The man is _given_ so much, by Malik most of all. Malik, who stands staring into the fire as if from it he will find two small boys, scurrying from the ash.

(But where is the younger brother? Lost in the desert, where Malik has left him for good.)

Altair calls, "Malik, come over here," but he pretends he hasn't heard. He'd much prefer to watch the flames, because in the shadows he sees Kadar. He can even hear him crying out…

Malik jolts to awareness. It's a woman's crying he's hearing, high-pitched and half-smothered, from somewhere within the cottage. Instinct propels him to shrug out of his _Dai's_ robes, leaving him only in white for the first time in many years. Lightness settles on his limbs, a luring freedom. The journeyman comes up behind him with a bucket of water, says, "The Master is asking for you, Lord," but Malik whirls on him and yanks the bucket from his hands.

"You said there were no survivors," he snaps.

The journeyman looks with bewilderment at the black robe puddled on the ground. "Lord, why are you…?" Then Malik splashes the water not over the cottage but over himself, drenching himself fully, robes gone almost transparent across his chest. "Wait," gasps the other assassin as he drops the bucket and darts forward, "Wait, _Dai_ Malik! The roof is going to cave in!"

It's true, it is, and the fire is a wall of heat that plucks the air from his lungs. But the front of the hut is still standing, and the woman must be there if she still lives. Her wail pushes him inside, and he blocks his face with his arm for protection. The journeyman yells his name again, and then all outside sounds are lost to the crackle of flame.

Malik pulls his cowl up and takes a shallow breath, careful with each crunching step not to nudge a fresh ember. Burning bundles of thatch tumble down around him, searing his shoulders, but the walls haven't yet caught, and besides a fallen beam the front room is largely intact. Not for long, but this reprieve is enough. He squints in the murk, unwilling to gulp down a lungful of smoke by opening his mouth to call out. With eyes near useless in the haze he trusts his ears to lead.

The crying is coming from beyond the beam, which has cut the room neatly in two and is burning swiftly. It will spark the walls soon. One end is wedged against the wall, forming a fiery arch Malik starts to duck under, to get a burst of sparks in his face as a reward.

With a snarl that ends in a cough he yanks out his broadsword and swings it down in a blunt chop, using it more like an axe to cut through the beam. The heat against his hand stings something hellish but the wood is soft with ash by now, and crumbles at the blow. Malik takes a wide step over, coughing again, or hacking really, with a sharp pinch deep in his chest.

He scans what he can see of the little room left and catches sight of her, huddled in the corner. She's wrapped the trailing edge of her green _khimar_ not over her face but across her drawn-up knees, and Malik feels an Altair-like flash of irritation at the stupidity of panicked people. She sees him and stops mid-cry, face shiny with sweat, green eyes bright with fear. He cuts through the narrow space to kneel at her side, puts his hand on her shoulder to pull her up, dropping his sword at his feet to do so.

She jerks herself out of his grasp with a grunt that sounds torn from the depths of her thin frame, keeping one shoulder turned and raised in modest defense. The movement is what draws Malik's attention to the blood: the _khimar_ is stained brown where it clings to her neck and the top of her chest. When she gasps a fresh red spurt blossoms against the cloth. She turns her body away when Malik tries to look closer, and with a wince he lets her.

The rattle in her breathing and the whiteness of her lips tells him there's nothing he can do.

But to burn alive is a worse fate than this woman deserves. "Let me take you from here," he says to her. She looks over her raised shoulder at him, wildly, with her cheeks flushed red.

"You," she says. Her voice is rough with smoke and older than her face. "Ahh, ahhss."

"Yes, I'm an assassin. I'm sorry, we weren't here to save this place. Come, _Sayyideti_, there isn't time. Choose an easier death than this."

"_You_. You, yes. Take." But when Malik pulls at her shoulder she struggles a second time. "No," she says, panting with the effort of speaking, and he thinks she's lost her mind from lack of air. Then she lowers her shoulder and turns to face him fully. With short, pained movements she draws her _khimar_ up, off her knees.

"What are you," says Malik, and then he sees, and is struck silent. Nestled against her stomach, whining now that the nebulous safety of the scarf has been pulled aside and the smoke allowed in, is a child maybe three months old. His dying mother cradles him awkwardly, looking from him to Malik and back. Altair would envy her the fierceness in her eyes.

"You," she says again. "Take."

Malik leans over them both. The child is whining louder now, using lungs that sound healthy. His face and waving hands are plump. He's wearing a little tunic-shirt that, if frayed at the edges, is spotlessly clean.

"_Take_," insists the woman. She doesn't have the strength to hold her child out to him, but she twitches her shoulders impatiently. "Ass'in," she says, lowering her gaze to the sword on the ground, the knives tucked into his belt. "You can, _nnh_…keep him safe."

"I understand. Yes." Malik nods, his voice soft. "Your son can be raised within the Brotherhood. He'll want for nothing there, I promise you—"

But she isn't satisfied. "_No_," she says, shaking her head with surprising force. Malik coughs again, impatient for his own sake as much as hers. "No orphan. Please. _You_ take him. Raised by…an ass'in. Always be safe."

For a brief, blissful second it doesn't make sense and he thinks pain has cost the woman her senses. Then he realizes, and almost loses his balance in lurching horror. The infant screws up his face, threatening to scream.

"No," Malik tells her, louder than he'd meant to, "No, I can't. I'm sorry. It isn't possible. We have many orphans who've never known anything but the Brotherhood. He won't be alone, he'll be fed and clothed and educated with all the rest. He…"

"Assassin," says the woman clearly, as if it were his name. "My son…is not an orphan."

"Where is his father?" She shakes her head. "His uncles? Cousins? Older siblings? Is there none of his family left?" Malik demands with growing anxiety. Again and again she shakes her head. "I cannot raise your son myself. If you want me to find a family to place him with—"

"No! You are an assassin. And you came."

"So did other assassins, I didn't come alone."

"Came here." She says firmly, "Caring. And brave." Malik wants to scream.

"Tell me where your parents are, where your husband's parents are. Or an uncle, a friend…_Sayyideti_, there must be someone else." But she won't answer.

Rationally he can understand her fear of leaving behind an orphaned child, even a son. Cast him off on some overburdened uncle's household, or worse, the household of a stranger, and her son will never be welcomed. They might raise him resentfully, raise him as little more than an indentured servant; they might sell him as a slave or throw him into a city orphanage, to be met with abuse and eventual military conscription. They might raise him with compassion, and still he might starve or be murdered by bandits or left dead of cholera before the age of two. Where people are poor, bloodlines are everything. An orphan is an unwanted mouth.

But Malik cannot give the woman what she wants. He is not a father.

"Please," says the woman, and now she really is having trouble with the smoke. The conflagration is creeping closer, rising higher. The roof creaks in warning. "Safe with you. He will be good."

"There are other assassins, assassins who have time for children."

"You came."

"Just because I was closest!" _Lie to her,_ Malik orders himself, _lie to her and leave or else you'll die at her side. _But he can't. She is dying, and she is desperate, and it's her family she wants to save.

And Malik is an orphan. Even at ten he knew that survival was too great an effort without somebody there to call him by name.

"I can't," he whispers. "Don't ask me to promise this."

"Strong ass'in. A good father." With terrible kindness she strokes the child's face, but her eyes stay on his, entreating.

Malik shouts, "How can you assume that?" and jabs his hand at his left side's folded sleeve. "I can't protect him. I'll fail again. _Altair_ is the one who takes and takes. Everything I have is lost."

(Altair with his children and lonely Malik with his tiny room, would it be so bad? To try again? The hope and fear, the assurances, _would it be so bad a second time_?)

The woman softens, with a sigh that takes her burdens away. She slumps low against the wall and Malik thinks she's died and left their fight unfinished, but suddenly she rallies, grabbing for his arm, the baby still nestled in her lap. "Tah," she says with fresh urgency, "Taahh…"

Feeling separate from it all (from his body, his history, the wants he'd ignored so well he'd never known they were there) Malik pulls her closer, to let her hiss against his ear. He is reeling too fast to do otherwise. "Tahhh," she tries. He holds her upright and looks at the child, numb.

_Kadar. Will you forgive me?_

Finally, with a last gush of vigor and blood, the woman whispers. Malik listens, nods, says nothing. There isn't a point. Her eyes hover half-closed and she's dead before he's moved away. Gently he separates the now-squalling infant from her lap, using the whole of his arm to support the tiny body, holding it close to his chest. How long it's been since child Malik held his newborn brother with both hands!

Malik rises to his feet, seeing his sword but having no way to pick it up, unless he was to drop the infant into the inferno. Already the sacrifices start. It surprises him how easy they are to make for a child that isn't of his blood. He steps past the beam, through the sweltering heat, lungs demanding oxygen that isn't there, mind graying at the edges. Damn fire and war, damn the heat of the sun. Malik trudges on, hoping the squalling baby won't move too much because he won't be able to catch him, trusting that the door is near.

What looks like a sheet of dancing fire, solid heat and light, swallows the way out. Malik coughs, and then can't stop coughing. The baby's crying is shriller now, thin and strained and leeched with terror. Malik holds the small face against his chest to protect it and buries his own face into the cowl, and then, because he has faced down pain before, because he so loathes fire, the King of Swords jumps through.

All ablaze, embers popping in his ears, his exposed hand singed and he is rife with silent cursing—

And then the whole sweet, clear world is around him, and the fire is behind.

Malik lands hard on his knees, careful to mind the infant, and coughs so hard he nearly retches. He spits, bringing it up from the pits of his lungs, and it comes out soot-dark and solid. His throat feels flayed open and his hand stings; he has no doubt it will soon blister. He and the child are both filthy and stink of smoke. There are burn marks on his clothing, as well ass telltale patches on his legs and face that pulse with pain.

But there are also alarmed assassins crowding round so he forces himself back to his aching feet. A laugh bubbles behind his lips, but Malik is generally a serious sort, and recognizes hysteria when he feels it. So he only thins his lips, and gathers back his breath.

Someone very close behind him bellows his name and turns him on his feet. Malik blinks at Altair, who is livid enough to smack him across the face, not hard. Malik allows this, because, well. He recognizes hysteria.

His mind is still a little hazy, and the contact between them so rare…he forgets for a moment that there's a crowd as he tilts his face and smiles into Altair's palm. The startled Grandmaster allows it for a second before drawing back. By then Malik's recovered himself.

"Do that again," he says quite cheerfully, "and I shall put acid in your drinking water."

"You are not the one who should be making threats right now." Altair is too flustered to notice the baby. "What the devil were you thinking, going in there? What if the roof had collapsed?"

"To borrow from your logic, it hasn't yet."

"The second most powerful man in the entire Brotherhood, and you play at suicide."

"The _most_ powerful man in the Brotherhood, and your voice could shatter glass. Stop shrieking."

"I am not shrieking!"

The baby, however, stunned into momentary silence, decides the situation calls for _someone_ to shriek. So he does. The journeymen take a step back as one mass. Malik rolls his eyes.

Altair needs another second. "If I had been the one to do that you would have yelled me into my grave. If I am the Master here you ought listen to my, to my…"

"To your?"

"Is that a baby?"

Malik adjusts his grip on the child. God, he's so small. Kadar was a fussy baby, and when he cried only incessant rocking would calm him. Malik sways back and forth, listening to the infant sniffle.

"Malik." Altair is frowning now. "You found it inside the hut?"

"Yes. His mother was calling."

"We were told there were no survivors." Altair turns his frown on the other assassins, who suddenly all have things to do on the other end of the village. The crowd is gone quickly, which Malik half-suspects was the point. "Where is the mother?"

"Dead. She was badly hurt."

"Any surviving family?"

Malik shakes his head, wincing as his hand stings. He says carefully, "Altair, I want to take him with us. To raise him."

Altair hesitates only a moment. "It would make sense. I'll have someone find a space for him in the novices' quarters when he's older—"

"That's not what I meant." Malik pauses too, testing the words, testing the drop. Another step and he will fall. But how far is the plunge this time? "I want to raise him," he says, and there is freedom in knowing there is no longer a choice. "On my own. As my son."

Altair is staring. Their eyes lock. For a minute no one speaks.

"You wanted a child?" asks the older man at last. "You never told me that."

"Is it so strange? Look at your household."

"I didn't say it was strange." He sounds sullen now, no mistake. "I said you never told me."

"It wasn't something I thought of very often. But I…to have someone to care for…"

"Ah, I see. And you haven't had that already."

Malik sharpens his voice, though his throat feels shredded from the inside. "Altair, enough. No more of that here."

"Someone to _care_ for. Of course. A thirteen year drought is a long one." He mutters, "Your forgiveness is a mirage."

"He is a _child_, you brainless novice. I'm telling you I've wanted a son, someone to raise. Or are you the only man allowed to pass on his name?"

"I never said that."

"And if we are discussing who has cared for whom lately, O Grandmaster, may I remind you of your _wife_."

"I thought we weren't having the argument here. But if we were I'd say that you gave me your blessing to marry."

"Because I never wanted to be your wife!" Malik says it too loudly and the baby whimpers. Quickly he tempers his voice. "You're right, though, we aren't fighting over that now. I've decided to raise this child as my own. I gave you my blessing once. I'd like yours now. But either way he'll carry my name."

Altair picks at the scar on his lip. He's silent for so long Malik is about to walk away in disgust. Then he scowls at his boots and says, "If you want my blessing you have it."

The _Dai_ dips his head. "…Thank you."

"But are you sure? That baby is an orphan, Malik, not of your bloodline."

"I've never thought that mattered much."

"Nor have I, but…"

"He is an abandoned orphan, yes. And that is more important than bloodlines."

"You were orphaned young. You survived. It didn't hurt either of us to be raised in the Order, without parents."

"That's arguable, my friend. And it's not what I want for him. You had Al Mualim, at least, and I had my brother. This little one needs someone too. And I did promise."

Altair turns his head at the mention of the dead. "If you're sure, then I'll recognize him as your son. But you're giving him a heavy title. It isn't a safe life."

"Yes," says Malik. "I…" It drains him to admit it, but he must. "I'm afraid of that. I could let it all be ruined."

Often Malik A-Sayf looks at his supposedly healed relationship with Altair, the bickering and innuendo and half-intentional insults, the damage they cause each other simply by being in the same room, and wonders why he bothers. Why either of them bother. Who is Altair Ibn La'Ahad that he should be worth such grief? Just a man whose abilities border on godlike, but whose understanding of humanity is equally removed. Half the time they make each other miserable. What is any of this _worth_?

And then Altair looks at him as he does now, with hesitant warmth as though ashamed of his own kindness, and offers him courage.

"You, afraid? You are the strongest man I know. What do you have to be afraid of? If you say you'll raise that baby then I look forward to watching him slashing people with words as his father does. It'll be amusing."

"I live to amuse you."

"You'll need to find a wet nurse, obviously. There's bound to be someone in Masyaf. And I'm moving your room as far away from mine as possible. I'm sure he'll cry all night long with you as a father."

"Says the man who was scared to hold his own sons when they were born."

"I wasn't. Who told you I was?"

"A good assassin never admits his sources, novice."

"You are a demon, not an assassin. Stop calling me novice."

"Stop acting like one and I will." Malik takes a breath. "I am sorry," he says.

Instantly Altair is on guard. "For what?" he asks, suspicious.

"That you think my forgiveness is a mirage." He smiles faintly at the baby, who's lying watchful in his arm. "Perhaps it has been, sometimes. But that was never my intent."

A muscle pulses in Altair's jaw. He starts to say something but freezes, eyes darting towards some specter at his shoulder. He is more and more distracted lately, and Malik considers pointing it out. Altair's hard whistle cuts him off. A horse comes trotting along, and Altair pulls himself upon its back before it's come to a full stop. Only when the man is sitting high above Malik does he square his shoulders, the stern lord in full command. "Be quiet," he orders. "Never apologize to me again."

Malik raises an eyebrow. "As you wish."

"I do."

"Here, before you ride off, hold him for a moment so I can get on my own horse." Altair looks askance at him. Malik clucks his tongue. "It's a baby, Altair, not a rabid dog." He holds the child up, until the other man has no choice but to take him.

"…He's calm," the Grandmaster allows after a long, doubtful look. The infant looks back at him, fretful but quiet under his shock of black hair. "Most children would be in hysterics."

Malik muses, "The Son of None holding a baby. The world should end soon." He moves away, but stops when Altair calls his name.

"What is his name, then? What will you call him?"

Malik glances over his shoulder at the two of them, shrouded in the smoke from the still-burning cottage. The roof has fallen in, finally, but the rubble will smolder for hours yet. And no one will return to clean away the debris.

But at least a name can be saved.

"Tazim," he says. "Tazim Ibn Malik." Then he leaves his son in Altair's arms and goes to find his horse.


	3. Chapter 2

AN: Note the rating change! Bolded _-i-_ are your warning.

I still haven't finished AC3 so I don't know all the details regarding Juno, but I do know she's a bitch. Good enough for me.

In my headcanon Malik has full-on conversations with baby Tazim. Just sits him down and talks while he tends to the paperwork: "…and all of this was due _last week_ but some of us are too busy being possessed by ancient artifacts to notice, not that I'm surprised, working with that selfish novice, if he didn't have a pretty face he'd be useless…" and Tazim's happily sucking his thumb in the background, not paying an ounce of attention.

And it's _still_ a more productive conversation than the typical Malik-Altair exchange.

* * *

**_Ghouls and Stories_**

Altair hears it calling him from across the fortress.

He moves swift as desert winds through the narrow passageways, headed not for his desk in the main hall where all might see him work, but for the secret dungeon room where no one will see a thing. It feels more his than the desk and hall: those things were Al Mualim's first, and they will always bear his scent.

It's a silly thing for men to have nightmares, because what is the point in fearing what isn't real? But occasionally even Altair has them, and when he does he is always standing in front of that desk, back straight 'til it hurts, as Al Mualim turns from the grand window to look at him with his piercing gaze. Master Al Mualim, who knows all secrets. He shakes his head, disappointed, and he says to Altair, "You've made a mistake. I never betrayed you. You've been wrong in everything you've done."

But Altair rarely has nightmares.

When he reaches the room he latches the door shut and drops his black robes to the floor. They're an important symbol of his office, he'd never walk out in public without them, but they're also heavy, and through a strange quirk of design this room would swelter in a blizzard.

He ignores the table laden with scrolls, turning instead to the ones tacked to the walls. His eyes fall on the nearest one, the one least scrawled over, and after a moment's consideration he pulls it free and spreads it out over the floor. Inexpertly sketched out in the middle is a version of the hidden blade, with small differences. He's made notes around it, in Arabic and Latin and even French, but they don't link together yet. This particular hidden blade is still a thing of dreams only.

Altair frowns, staring at it, impatient for it to spring fully-formed from the paper. He runs the Brotherhood and the Brotherhood must stay ahead of their enemies. Al Mualim had been such a traditionalist, had been so against new weapons or even new models of old weapons—

He chases the thoughts away before he can linger too long on his old Master's face. The Apple of Eden calls to him again. Carefully he reaches for a leather pouch hanging off his belt. Its size belies its weight as always, for the thing inside has the weight of God attached.

Altair holds the Apple in his right hand, rubbing the tips of his fingers against its uneven surface. So small, so simple.

Malik has never trusted it, for its powers are beyond what should be possible. But Altair has fought with the thing, thrown all his might against it and come out still sane. It isn't as though he trusts it fully either, but he respects what it can do. He respects whatever man or sorcerer made it, and Altair doesn't lend out his respect often.

The Apple of Eden. Was it what drove Al Mualim mad? Or had the old man been a traitor all along?

Altair sets the orb on the table, where it glows faintly. Then he tends to other matters, answering requests made weeks ago and deadlines long passed, sifting through the clutter. Occasionally he might glance at the orb (fine, say that he does), but he doesn't reach for it, or touch it, or pick it up (because Altair is in control, not some wizard's trinket however useful). He's gotten into the habit of using the Apple only after he's finished other business. Malik says the thing acts alive, ridiculous as it sounds, and that it will consume him. Altair ignores it to prove to the _Dai_ that he can.

Malik misunderstands the artifact, of course. He sees it as a weapon only, when violence is just one of the Apple's many tools. When Altair holds it he is transported—lifted—he finds himself in strange grey country, where voices tell him of the future. Sometimes he is given visions, quick flashes he must piece together if he can. If he focuses he can see his body, standing in the dungeon room, but still the Apple _takes_ him somewhere. Lately it has been harder to ground himself to the real world. He doesn't always bother.

Altair doesn't know how the Apple works, which is admittedly annoying. But it does work. Some mind-clouding poison, he supposes, released when met with the warmth of human touch. Some heating agent, some metal not available in the Levant. And if it knows its own riddles, it won't answer them. Altair can stand in the grey fog and bark endless questions, but not all of them are answered. The voices speaking through the artifact have their own wills.

"A sword that thinks," Malik called it once. "A lump of metal that can keep grudges like a man. How wise is it to trust that?"

But it _does_ work.

If Altair is shown a weapon with braces and buckles, then afterwards he sketches the design and takes it to the blacksmith, and the blacksmith is amazed by the clever invention. If he is shown a way to jump or run or hide, he tries it out in the real world and jumps, runs, hides, better than even he imagined.

Not all the visions are so clear. Sometimes after a session he is left seething with frustration, soaked with bits of knowledge he doesn't know how to use. Metal tubes that use powder to fling tiny stones with great force. Giant armored carts, moving of their own volition, faster than the best-bred stallion. Fire that springs from a small box to swallow everything, even water: Greek fire, it must be, but Altair has asked around and _knows_ the recipe for such a thing has been lost since the fall of Rome.

The Apple knows the past, then, as well as the future. Does it learn? Does it choose who to teach and who to scorn? When Altair holds it, if he wanted, he could stay out of the grey country and instead use it as a weapon here, on his own earth. It tells him so in honeyed tones.

But he has promised Malik.

Not many in the Order know much about the artifact. They know it exists, kept hidden from Templar desires, and perhaps rumors reach the novices of their Grandmaster being invincible, able to read minds and fortunes. But those rumors were woven around Al Mualim as well.

(Altair grits his teeth. _Stop thinking of him_, he orders himself. The past is tainted. He was too different then.)

He looks down at the table and sees chipped wood all around the orb. Has he been so productive, or merely shoved scrolls aside? Either way the Apple waits patiently. He looks next at the scroll still spread out on the floor, at the hidden blade that doesn't require a finger removed. He's sketched out the brace already, but the inner mechanisms are unclear. How could it possibly work? If he were a traditionalist he would tear the design to pieces, because losing a finger has always been the mark of a Master Assassin.

Altair is no traditionalist, though. And in this world where Templars are generals and kings, he wonders if it is so helpful for assassins to stay as they are. They are meant to work in the dark, but they have always been wielded like an army: conquering lands, building fortresses.

"Fine," he says at last, and picks the Apple up.

The warmth swallows his hand and his arm, swallows him whole in a rush of gold light. He squints against the brightness, his pulse loud in his ears. As ever there is the sensation of pain, or rather, pain missing. A gap where pain ought to be. Then he is out and through and standing on a mass of swirling, chilly grey that soaks through the soles of his boots.

If he thinks hard he can remember that none of this is real, not the clouds nor the chill. He is still sitting at the table, bent over the artifact, eyes glazed and breath slow.

But there is also this world, where he stands with nothing in his hand but an invisible weight, and the sense of many others watching.

_Who?_ says a voice both male and female, and then just as quickly answers, _You are returned. You delayed too long. There is not time._

Altair squares his shoulders and wishes for his black robes. "There is time if I say so," he says, knowing he sounds petulant. Sounds, in fact, like his old self. The self he tries to pretend has been neatly defeated and put aside. But something about this place drags out the truth in him; there are too many illusions built into the world itself to allow even one more brought in by others.

"I am the Grandmaster of the Assassin's Order," he adds. He's pretty sure the voice is always the same one, but a reminder never hurts.

_Oh, indeed? Such a small thing. We did not build humans to understand true _distance. _A few thousand years and your world will end. But you would fritter about as if you were eternal._

Altair asks with disinterest, "Are you supposed to be a god, then? Am I meant to be impressed by a myth?"

The he-she voice says, _Be impressed with what stands before you!_ The Apple takes form, but like the grey mist around them both the figure cannot hold its shape. Now it is female, with a sweeping, layered gown and complicated headdress. Now it is male, with a thick beard and powerful biceps. Now it is both at once. Altair smirks.

"I don't think so," he says. "For all the power of this thing, it's still just another weapon. My guess is you're a shred of yourself, put in here as a guide for whatever purpose. If anything the Apple is the master. I can't be impressed by a slave."

_He says, he says_, murmurs the creature. One blue eye and one brown open very wide. _We agree with you, fool that you are. We are not impressed by slaves. And what of our purpose? Would you not know it?_

"Your failures are your own." Growing impatient, Altair orders, "That hidden blade you showed me last time, tell me how to build it."

_We showed you last time,_ says the voice in woman's guise. She is pretty, with her long, straight, brown hair and flashing eyes: pretty in a frozen way. Her dress is low against her breasts but the collar is high, brushing against her chin, her curves glimpsed behind translucent fabric. A delicate femininity of the type Altair has no use for, though she must think herself powerful.

"Show me again."

_Do you not remember?_

"You gave me riddles and half-truths last time. Not the whole thing."

_We gave you enough. We should not have given you anything at all._

"But you did. And you will."

_Do not presume it,_ the figure thunders, flickering male. The headdress is molded differently now, rounded closer to the skull, and the cape it drapes over itself leaves an arm bare. It glows, backlit by nothing, as did its sister-self. _Do not presume that you are all-important. There are others, in this time and farther on. There will _be_ others. You are only one piece._

"Enough. Show me how to build the hidden blade."

_You are one piece, _she-he warns, _and under you everything your Order was will end._

"You are a weapon, not a soothsayer. Save your curses."

_It is not prophecy, Altair. It is fact. For we have seen and will seen, we who burned once already. And it is Desmond, not you, who will…_

"If you aren't going to tell me anything useful," says Altair, "I'll drop you off the side of the mountain and be done with it. I don't need your help. I don't trust it either, since it was offered so freely. If you aren't going to cooperate then you've run out of things to show me and you're as unnecessary as Malik says."

_Ah, Malik,_ it coos, and the voice is female but different still. Now the hair is black as tar and the headdress cut into sections around the crown of its head and its forehead. The eyes are black as well. Altair watches closely, because this is the first time he's ever seen this avatar. _Yes, Malik, warning you of danger. Have you never thought that he is far more dangerous than we? There is much of us put into the Pieces of Eden, but we are scattered and our powers weakened. He is whole, _says the voice in his ear, though the figure hasn't moved. _He is whole and so close. Nearness brings temptation, Altair, does it not? What color is he, when you use your second sight?_

Altair doesn't bother to ask how it knows he has eagle's vision. "Not red," he snaps, with a toss of his head.

_But not blue either. What sort of people are gold, Altair? What does gold mean for you?_

Altair looks at the black-haired, smirking thing, and takes a step backwards. Somewhere past the clouds are his table and his chair.

_Would you love him or kill him? Which do you want? We will help you do both._

Altair steps backwards again, reaching behind him for his actual self, for the actual world, pulling himself away…

But now the creature takes its male form again. Its features shift seamlessly, the high cheekbones of the females settling underneath the male's heavy brows. It's a layered creature, wearing all its skins at once, but at least it looks familiar now. _The hidden blade,_ it says, _depends on angles. The blade itself must be realigned._

Altair is still tempted to turn back. Despite that, he answers, "Moved too far to the front and it snaps. I've tried it," and feels himself drawn into the conversation almost against his will. Images flicker in the grey, sword-steel and brace-leather.

The Grandmaster forgets to leave.

_-i-_

A million miles away and yet in the same fortress, Malik sits reading through correspondence. He's sent spies to the reaches of their territory and beyond, without asking Altair, because it's usually too hard to find the man. His stealth is beyond human, and Malik dislikes chasing after him like a king's minister. Even if that's essentially what he is. Besides, he acts with Altair's tact approval.

He frowns over the missives in his hand, seeing the same words repeated over and over: conquest, invasion, destruction. All at the hands of a foreign army Malik's never come across before. More alarming than the talk of how they swarm over cities is the occasional mention of their leader.

_He works with absolute control_, writes one spy. _He is gifted with godly strength_, writes another. _He is restless_, adds a third, and for Malik this is key_. No sooner has he sacked one city, absorbing it into his massive empire, then he embarks for the next. He seems less interested in gold or trade or women than in the violence of battle. If he is searching for something it hasn't been found._

In Malik's experience men who fight for the sake of fighting don't manage to muster such massive armies for so long. It takes pretty words to get soldiers moving, righteous speeches or gold-stoked promises. Disillusion sets in quickly and is as fatal to generals as disease.

But what could he be looking for, this Genghis Khan? And wouldn't be _such_ a coincidence if his search led him here?

The assassins should be preparing for this. Open battle isn't the Brotherhood's strength but there are other tricks that might be tried. Someone probably should have assassinated the Mongol general already, but that someone would be the Grandmaster, and the Grandmaster spends more and more of his time in other worlds. He has given the Order weapons, yes, and techniques no one else can fathom, but the price is steep. The price is trusting the Piece of Eden.

Altair swears he won't use it against another person, swears that he saw with Abbas what could happen if its wielder lost control. Malik believes him, but Malik has been betrayed before.

He runs his fingers along the loose pages, feeling a sharp pinch in his missing wrist, and remembers the days just after the amputation, when the pain had been so tremendous he'd screamed for the surgeons to cut off an arm already gone. Altair hadn't been there for that.

"Uncle?"

Malik swallows the old anger and looks up. Darim pushes the door to his room open fully and steps inside. He's wearing a sword on his waist, specially designed to be lighter and shorter out of consideration for his age. Though he trains in groups like any other novice, the rules as to what weapons are doled out when have been laxed somewhat over the years. These days students are given what they think they can handle, and are beaten to the ground with their hubris if they're wrong.

"Safety and peace," Darim says formally. "I'm sorry to bother you, but have you seen Father? He was supposed to fight me in the courtyard half an hour ago."

Malik hides a sigh. "I'm sorry, I haven't. He's been very busy…"

"He's always busy." Darim smacks his palm against his leg. "I don't know why he bothered to keep me here. At least with Mother and Sef I'd get to see Acre."

"Your father is the Master of our whole Order," Malik reminds him sternly, "and that means he never has a moment to rest. You aren't a child any longer, Darim, you know this."

"Yes, Uncle."

Malik studies the boy's dejected face. It took him a while to adjust to the idea of Altair having children—and once the children were born he wasn't sure how he should act. As teacher, as relative, as friend? He ultimately settled on an uneasy combination of the three. But it's been easier in the year that Maria and Sef have been gone, because Malik recognizes the damage done by separating families. It isn't wise to keep the boys apart for so long. Brothers have duties to one another, do they not?

"Still," he says, "a man should keep his promises, and if your father promised you a training session he should have given you one. Come, if you'd like I can be his stand-in. I need to get some sword practice in myself."

Darim brightens. "Yes, Uncle! If, if you aren't too busy here?"

"It's nothing that can't wait."

"Then do you think I could use your throwing knives? Just one or two. And I'll aim at the ground, I won't even throw them that hard. Can I?"

"You've never used them before. Knives are dangerous, especially with a crowd watching."

"So we'll tell them to go away."

"It's the main courtyard. Where else should the guards be?"

"It doesn't matter, Uncle, if you tell them to go they will. You're Father's voice when he's not there. He always says as much." He sounds too confident. Sometimes there is hardness in Darim that is beyond his age. Certainly he speaks more as a man of fifteen years than a child of ten.

"We need guards in the main courtyard."

"But you've got so many knives and the instructors keep saying I'm not old enough, and—and when Father was ten he was using them!"

"And did he tell you why he was using them?"

"Because he was a protégé. An amazing fighter from the time he was born, almost."

"Yes. But he was using them at ten because he used to steal them from the instructor's cupboards. He got caught when he nicked Abbas in the arm and had to survive off bread and water for a week."

"Oh. Really?" Darim considers. "Does this mean I should try to steal them?"

Someone else knocks at the door. "Come in," Malik calls, and an assassin in full facemask comes through. He holds a sniffling Tazim in his arms.

"The nurse said to bring him to you, Lord," says the assassin. "He's been fed and changed but won't sleep. She thinks he wants his father."

Malik stands up and holds out his arm. The guard hands Tazim over and bows his way out of the room, as the _Dai_ adjusts his careful grasp. Tazim whines but doesn't fidget much, as if he knows his father's injury.

"You," says Malik to his son, "should not be causing your nurse problems. Assassins don't complain without cause."

"Ababa," says Tazim, and flings out a little fist. "Bababa."

"I'm not sure if you're trying to say _Baba_ or just making noise. It'd be a little early for speech…"

"Bababa," Tazim says again, and beams. His eyes widen and he reaches out for Malik's stitched sleeve, gurgling, fascinated.

"Yes, there ought to be an arm there. Smart boy you are, eh?" Malik shifts his position a bit so that Tazim can reach the front of his robes. The boy proceeds to grab a handful before pulling his hand to his mouth and sucking on the whole thing. "There is a reason," sighs Malik, "why every robe I own has spit stains down the front."

Tazim giggles at his father's mock-stern voice. Most people think the _Dai_ contemptuous and flinch, which he knows because he sees them do it and is quite amused. But Tazim is delighted by nothing as much as his father pretending to growl.

"I should make you wash the laundry," says Malik, watching him. How used to his son he's become in these last several weeks! Suddenly his world is not merely the Brotherhood but something else once again. Suddenly he must consider this pudgy baby swaddled in white. Tazim is good-natured but willful, and when he gets it into his head that he does _not_ want to sleep or he _will_ eat immediately, he can yowl himself right out of the frustrated nurse's arms and into his father's. He always calms down around Malik.

Kadar was the same way. But there is no blood connection, so coincidence is all it can be.

"Uncle?" Malik, startled, looks up. He'd half-forgotten Darim was there. Altair's son looks morose again. "I guess you're busy now," he says. "I'll go train in the courtyard, then."

But Malik says, "Wait a moment. There's a blanket in the corner there, and a pillow. Grab them and _one_ throwing knife. If you can carry those for me I'll practice with you outside. _Itfudul_, it's my pleasure."

Darim brightens and tugs his sword's holster straight against his hip. Malik, already wearing his, steadies Tazim and follows him out.

The main courtyard is full of novices throwing punches, and not a lot of shade; Malik frowns at all the careless students pushing through the crowds, the bearded _Rafiks_ and white-robed scholars standing in clumps, debating their favorites. Good to see the Brotherhood bustling, but no place to put a child. And in minutes those _Rafiks_ will be swarming the second-in-command with any manner of distractions.

"I know another place," says Darim. He leads Malik around the training ring to one of the outbuildings, then through it to a patch of grass hidden between the fortress and the inner wall. Malik has never been here and cranes his head to see if the Master's garden is visible, or the cliff. Sometimes he half-suspects the fortress is alive in its own right, shifting its halls and adding rooms, because no one—not even Altair—can say he's mapped every corner.

But it's a good space, out of the way and unused. Darim spreads the blanket in a patch of shade near the wall, and Malik nods his thanks as he lowers Tazim onto it.

"Ok," says Altair's son, "I'm ready."

"Not yet. If I'm going to teach you anything new I think it'd be wiser to do so with easier weapons. There should be some wooden swords back in the courtyard, if you ask Instructor Rauf."

Darim's face falls. "But, _Uncle_…I know how to use a real sword. The blacksmiths made this one especially for me, I don't have any trouble lifting it."

"I'm aware. And when I'm sure you know what you're doing we can practice with steel. But I'd rather not have to explain to the Grandmaster why his son is missing a hand."

Darim looks as though he wants to argue more, his eyes darkening, but instead he turns to fetch the wooden practice weapons. Malik kneels by the blanket to wait, one eye on Tazim as he tugs on tufts of dying grass. By the time Darim returns, the baby has fallen asleep, his fist still buried in the weeds.

Malik scuffs one foot against the flagstones as Darim lifts his wooden sword. Malik lifts his own practice sword in his hand. He's fought enough one-handed that the light blade, little more than a stick, feels quick but unwieldy. Still, it doesn't take much to get comfortable again. Patterns learned from childhood are never totally forgotten.

"Begin," he says, and Darim scuttles around to his left side immediately. Malik blocks a quick swipe at his left shoulder and Darim teeters, then recovers again by stabbing forward and leaning on the swords. He still needs work on his balance. Malik resettles his feet facing the boy and sees Darim's eyes, bright and focused. He hardly has a brow to furrow.

Darim strikes again, one high and one low smack that Malik parries. The attacks are quicker than they are strong, and so Malik slices forward to test Darim's strength. When the swords hit they both shake: Darim's arms too.

The little eyas. No way to tell whether he might move like his father.

"Keep your guard up!"

The boy takes one hand off his sword, wincing. Instead of giving him another command Malik just attacks, striking down toward Darim's shoulder; he doesn't slow his attacks for the children. Darim isn't grown, so he needs to train against taller people.

Malik expects his sword to hit. But Darim twists out of the way in a movement that's mostly shoulders, and the _Dai_ nods appreciatively before stepping forward to close with Darim again.

This time Darim throws a glance and then a swing at Malik's left side. Malik, who's been expecting such a move, swivels on his heel and blocks with the center of his blade. Well-honed muscles hold his defense steady as Darim clenches both hands around his sword's hilt, trying to break through.

Malik says, "A good fighter takes note of his opponent's weak points and exploits them for his own gain." He squares one ankle in the dirt and transfers more strength to his arm, and now he's pushing the boy back a step. Darim's eyes widen over the struggle of their swords. "But a _great_ fighter," Malik continues, "realizes that any opponent with sense in his head will have practiced endlessly to cover the very obvious deficiencies. The great fighter finds a weak point that the opponent didn't realize he had."

And now Darim's stance is so wobbly that it takes barely a thought to twist around and shove him back. While his arms pinwheel Malik kicks his legs out from under him. Wooden sword and boy both go flying. The _Dai_ lowers his own and stands over Darim, smiling.

"You got a little carried away, but you were thinking like an assassin. Just hone those instincts."

Darim sits up. "I would've been better with a real sword," he mutters.

"Better to make your mistakes with a wooden one."

"When I train with Father we use real swords. Even Sef got one."

"Over my objections. Seven is too young."

Darim gets to his feet. "What business of it was _yours_?"

Malik raises an eyebrow.

"…Sorry," Darim says, flushing. "I didn't mean it, Uncle."

"We're doing too much talking for a training session, anyway. You've been taught parrying well but you're too rushed. Sword fighting is about grace, and right now you're tripping over your own maneuvers. Let me see you strike out smoothly."

Malik sets the boy to practicing his swings, and to his credit Darim takes the order seriously, with none of a typical novice's whining over the repetition's dullness. The _Dai's _experienced gaze catches some mistakes in posturing and he calls for Darim to correct them. Then he falls silent, and the only sound in the courtyard is Altair's son attacking his invisible foe.

Tazim is still sleeping and Darim preoccupied. Malik slips into musing almost without intention.

_What business of it was mine? Good question. You've realized more than I thought. More than you should._

In an Order that protects society from the outside, where culture and custom are often set aside, allowances must be made. Al Mualim never married. Earlier leaders trained their sons and daughters both, and those trained poorly they buried. This is typical, Malik knows.

But even within the Brotherhood, Altair's family is _odd_.

How much displeasure there was at the Son of None's marriage to a former enemy, Malik isn't sure. Whispers of it came to him, because he is so good at eavesdropping, but Masyaf isn't Jerusalem. His network of spies wasn't yet as developed here. For his own part he was very careful to remove himself from the issue, to give neither approval nor dismay, only his vague blessing that Altair had the right to take a wife. It would not do for a man of his rank to be seen criticizing such a choice.

But if he'd had the freedom? If he could have been just another journeyman, muttering his unease?

What business is Altair's family to Malik? None at all. And yet—

_You who I thought would never marry. Did you think to make me jealous? I'd rejected you once. Did you think by making me nursemaid to your children you'd keep me here forever?_

A backfired plan, if plan it was. Malik isn't jealous of Maria, and he doesn't begrudge Altair's children their inherited role. He does his duty. He always has.

"Uncle?"

He looks up to see Darim has stopped practicing. "What is it?"

"You were barely watching."

"You're right, I was a hundred years away. My apologies."

"Are you worried about something? The Mongols, the villagers?"

"Not as such. But I see your father keeps you well-informed."

"He lets me sit in on some meetings. And others I, er…"

"Don't worry," Malik chuckles. "I'd think less of any son of his who didn't listen in on deep secrets from various secret passageways."

"You know about the passageways?" Darim looks aghast. "I thought I was being quiet all those times."

"You were, mostly. But who do you think ordered half of those passageways built? They're not entirely secret, I suppose. I should have killed the architect when he was done."

"Wha-at? But the fortress is ancient!"

"Every new ruler takes what he's been given and changes it, unless he wants to die the same way as his predecessor. Something to keep in mind."

"Does Father know they're there? I mean, he's the Grandmaster. He has to know _every_thing."

"What your father does or doesn't know means very little to how well you hold your sword. Come, let's see you…"

"What about Mother? How much do you tell her?"

Malik pauses, looking at the boy. Again there is a clever glint in Darim's eyes that doesn't (shouldn't) fit. "I'm not privy to your parents' conversations," he says at last. "As the Grandmaster's wife I'm sure Maria knows much of the Order's inner workings."

"Some of the assassins don't like that." Darim won't take his eyes from Malik's. "I hear them talking, though not to me. Some of them don't like her."

"No, they don't."

"Why is that?"

"I'm sure you know enough already, Darim."

"But tell me anyway. The parts I don't know."

Malik pats his hip, where his holster hangs heavy and familiar. "Grandmaster's son you may be, but you're a little young to be barking orders."

"Please," Darim says, voice a little strained. "You're my father's most trusted advisor. No one else will tell me, and if they do they're probably lying. But everything he knows he tells you."

"Not everything."

"More than he tells anyone else. You're the most dangerous man in the Brotherhood. I heard Mother say it once."

"Did she really?" Malik muses.

"Please, Uncle. Sef's too young and silly to notice how weird things are. But I want to know."

Malik drops the wooden sword, abruptly. "You took a throwing knife, right?"

"Uh, yes."

"See that dark smudge on the far wall?"

"Not…really…?"

"That's your target. Hit it ten times in succession and I'll let you keep the knife."

"Oh!"

He waits until Darim has grabbed the knife and positioned himself (rather poorly, really, but the King of Swords lets it go). Then, over the swish of displaced air, the _thock_ of metal hitting stone, and the crunch of Darim's boots on the ground as he goes to pick up the knife again and again, Malik beings to speak.

He says, "Your mother is a Christian. That you know already. And before she joined us she was a Templar. That you've no doubt heard whispered if she hasn't told you outright. Focus on the target, Darim, not my voice. Don't let your aim be distracted. And don't lock your elbow when you throw."

"Yes, Uncle."

"What might be new to you is that Maria wasn't simply a Templar soldier. She was a close confidant of the man who was our greatest enemy, the leader of the Knights Templar." _And she was his lover too, if you believe the rumors,_ Malik doesn't add. He's moving now, in quick, wide circles around Darim, who swallows and keeps throwing the knife, fetching it, throwing, fetching, again and again. Malik keeps himself out of the weapon's path and says, "It went poorly for her after Altair killed de Sablé. Their culture isn't so different from ours when it comes to views of women. For Maria Thorpe to speak and dress and fight as a man…they accepted it because they had no choice. Once Robert was dead she was an easy target for blame, the temptress who clouded his mind and brought him to ruin."

"But that isn't true. Mother said the first time she met Father she fought with him. Nearly killed him. She didn't ruin anything."

"You're surprised at the backlash? A woman, Darim, barking orders at knights in Jerusalem?" Malik is close enough in his circling to jab the back of Darim's shoulder. Darim, startled, nearly drops the dagger. "_Focus._ You need to marry yourself to that knife. It needs to be an extension of your arm, your fingers. Any fool can throw a dagger and hope it lands. You must _know_ where it will land before it leaves your hand."

Darim doesn't answer, only goes to pick it up again. He's learning.

"So," continues Malik, "Maria lost her place. Her sword skills you must have noticed. I believe her father taught her. Her skill was what saved her life, if not her reputation. She battled her way out of Jerusalem and came here. Not to join us, but to fight us. Well, to fight Altair, since she blamed him for her ill fortune. Yelled her way right through the front gates. Altair nearly lost their fight, as I recall, but she was fighting hot with fury. Keep it in mind, Darim, not to do that. If you're angry, be so angry that you're sharp as ice. Otherwise your emotion will make mistakes."

Malik stops behind Darim again and watches his next few throws. If the boy's arm is getting tired he doesn't show it. His aim is true and there are only a few nicks in the wall where the knife has missed the target. Malik nods once, and resumes his pacing.

"She was kept here while we discussed what should be done." _I wanted to put her in a far-off prison. I didn't trust her. But I don't trust the Apple and you've never listened to me on that, either. _"Altair visited her often, speaking of our cause. He was fascinated by the idea of a woman fighter…your father has never had patience for weakness or charm, which is why I was sure he'd die a bachelor. Instead he marries the only woman for a thousand miles who can challenge him with a sword."

"And then?"

"And then you were born, and Sef. If the Brotherhood suspected their leader marrying a Templar woman they knew better than to say."

"What did you suspect?"

"I suspected theirs would be a loud engagement. If there's a man more stubborn than Altair, I haven't met him. And your mother is not a woman to bow meekly before her husband. Which is half the reason why he married her, he enjoys a good argument."

"Then why does Mother travel so often?"

Malik knows better than to answer fully. He moves closer to Darim, his black robes shielding his form, making it hard to pinpoint an individual arm or leg. "Maria still has contacts in Acre. She was used to traveling with Robert and I think the stationary life bores her. Your father would do the same if he could."

Finally Darim lowers his arm. The strain is back in his voice. "Why did she take Sef with her and not me? Did she think Father would notice? I don't think he has!"

_I could tell you more,_ thinks Malik, looking at Altair's eldest and remembering how harshly it hurts to be abandoned. _I could tell you how the stares she gets in Arabia are no friendlier than the stares she got in England. I could tell you how she fights with Altair, the two of them bickering like the worst enemies. And when they don't make up quickly I could tell you what your father does. Where he goes._

"Altair is not good with affection," he says. "But he knows you're here. Maria wanted to take both her sons with her on this latest trip, but Altair refused it. Sef is younger, and a year apart from Maria would be hard for him. But Altair insisted you stay with him."

"Because he wanted me to train here, that's all. Not 'cause he cared."

"Because he wanted his son close."

Darim shakes his head. "How do you know all this? Did Mother tell you?"

"Some. The rest I found out in other ways."

"You find everything out."

"That is my duty."

Darim turns his gaze to the blanket where Tazim is beginning to stir. Distantly he says, "I miss them, but I don't. Mother writes often enough. And Sef is just…"

"Sef is your brother. I wasn't thrilled with this trip's timing, you know. Brothers should stay together."

"Ah, he'll be fine with Mother. It's not like he'll do anything when he's so lazy."

"He's your little brother," Malik says sternly. "You have responsibilities."

Darim isn't paying attention. Scowling, he hands the dagger back to Malik. "I don't think I'm very good with this. Every throw feels wrong, even when it hits the target."

Malik acknowledges, "It takes some practice." Nudging the knife's handle between his fingers, he tilts his wrist and lets a second knife slip unseen from his sleeve. With both knives positioned just so, and without looking at the target, without any obvious planning in his eyes at all, the _Dai_ twists his wrist and the weapons fly.

They hit the the wall so close together one nearly knocks the other out of alignment. The cut air sings around their wavering hilts.

Darim stares.

Malik strides over to pull his knives free, getting a closer glance at their placement in the process. "A little too far to the left," he says to himself. "I need to practice more myself."

His hand stings as he pulls the second blade out and stings worse when he flexes his wrist to prop the knife back into the holster under his sleeve. No wonder: the skin on the back of his hand is red and tight against the bone, swollen into blisters at spots around the knuckles. A couple of the blisters have already burst.

"Ew," says Darim, also noticing. "When did that happen?"

"Since the fire," Malik says absently. After he returned to Masyaf from the ruined village he'd put some salve on the worst of his burns and then, in an Altair-like way, promptly forgotten about them. He hardly had the time to linger on pain. He'd returned different then he'd left, and now there was a child to feed and clean and worry over…

"It looks bad, Uncle," says Darim. "You'll probably get scars from it."

"Probably." Malik looks over to where Tazim is stirring awake, struggling doggedly to push himself upright.

"Bababa," he calls, head up but the rest of his body still out of his control. It's early yet for him to sit but it hasn't stopped him trying. "Abaaa," he says, almost sounding indignant. He must love the feel of that sound, because it's all he ever says besides wordless infant babble. Malik scoops him up—his hand aches but he ignores it—and is pleased when Tazim giggles.

"What?" asks Malik. "Getting impatient, are we? Ready to go back inside?"

"Babaaaba."

"Such a demanding baby!" Tazim squirms, wrinkling his nose. Malik holds him more secure against his body and says over his shoulder to Darim, "I should get him to his nurse so he can eat. You did well today."

Darim says, "Um. Thank you for telling me about Mother. I didn't know the details."

_You still don't,_ thinks Malik. But to Darim he only nods.

_-i-_

Altair returns to himself a wild animal, hackles raised. He staggers on numb legs, drops to all fours, crouching with feral eyes, the dungeon room so claustrophobic he thinks he could reach out and touch every wall at once. His white robes are stained in ugly patches with, with sweat? Blood? Does he know?

The Apple sits on the floor where it'd been dropped, glinting in near-darkness.

He pushes up to his knees in the swirling world, mind pounding with all he's been shown—but it's not enough—never enough—he must protect his Order—

He's on his feet now, panting, dimly aware of his nose dripping blood. He gives the bleed an irritated swipe of his hand, too busy to deal with it, much too busy, oh yes.

"What did they tell you this time?" Kadar asks.

The Grandmaster turns on his heel, fast enough that he trips. His gaze crashes down on the illusion with its clean uniform and earnest blue eyes. So friendly, this chimera. So much warmth and concern from what is only a _trick of the light_.

"Are you ok?" he asks. Altair cannot stop thinking of it as _he_. "You're bleeding again. And that was only a few hours, you've spent much longer…"

"Shut up," Altair snarls. "I'm busy."

"Busy with what?"

"I must, I need to, Malik must—"

"Malik's probably in his quarters at this time of day. Are we gonna go find him?"

Altair says, "_I_ will go." His lips feel swollen, the words gumming up behind his teeth. The room's close air is a gag pressing into his mouth. "You won't. You'll stay."

"Stay where?"

"Here."

Kadar laughs, good-naturedly. "Nope," he says. "Come on, tell me, did they show you anything really interesting this time? A new weapon or something? Maybe a bit of the future!"

"They…there is…a fire coming, and we are the shields…no. Not for their bidding. That isn't right."

"You sound awful, Grandmaster. I think you should sit down. Maybe send for a water carafe? I'm worried about you."

Altair presses his bloodied hand to his forehead. "Why do _you_ call me Grandmaster?"

"It's what you are. Heh! You must remember that."

"I was never…I was never your master."

"Nope," Kadar says again, and leans in close. "But, oh, how I _trusted_ you," he says softly, with a smile. "I would have followed your _every_ order, Altair."

Does Altair even control the hand that slashes upwards? It is such a habit by now. He stabs what should be the illusion's face with his hidden blade, but Kadar only flickers out and reforms by the door.

"Malik's not gonna like seeing you like this," he says. "I think you should wait."

_Malik._ Altair grabs hold of the name, like a beacon bobbing in a frothing sea, and pushes on.

**_-i-_**

There are phials of salve and bandages scattered across the table top, but after the third time Malik knocks a bottle over he's tempted to shove everything to the floor and tend to paperwork instead. He can knife his target blindfolded and walk with confidence on a mountain's edge, but the simple act of dressing his burns is nearly beyond him. It's impossible, he grouses in a rare moment of self-pity, to bandage a wound on his hand when he's only got the one hand to use!

Damn the ointments, anyway. Allah knows what's in them, these slimy tinctures from Baghdad the healers favor. Malik has become an elderly waste if he can't survive a burn or popped blister.

He reaches over with his hand hurting even worse from the aborted wrapping attempt to pull out a sheaf of expensive paper, and in the space of the movement his door is shoved open. Malik jerks back, alarmed at being taken by surprise. He should have heard any visitors from a mile of creaking floorboards away.

But it's Altair who stands staring with burning eyes in his doorway, and Altair has always been a phantom.

"Malik," says the Grandmaster.

"Yes?" says Malik, irritated already, caught in this vulnerable moment with his burns exposed.

"Malik," Altair says again, still staring. He's swaying where he stands, and there is a bit of dried blood around his nostrils.

"What is it, Altair? Did you need something?"

Altair opens his mouth to say something, but what, Malik never learns. Instead of speech the older man crosses the room in fast strides, on him in a second's breath, pressing him against the chair. Suddenly there are hands on Malik's waist, his shoulders, suddenly there are hands with scars he recognizes better than his own shoving off his black robes. Those hands are frenzied, must be kept engaged: they tug at the front of Malik's white garb next, pulling open the ties, exposing his chest.

Malik makes a half-smothered noise of protest. It's late. Tazim's wet nurse is only just down the hall, and she could walk in with a cranky baby at any time. He's not in the mood. Altair ignores him, and with reason. Malik's hands have already grabbed the Grandmaster's hips to pull him down.

How many times have they done this? How often do they grapple with each other in half-silence, wary of discovery? It was more frequent, once…

Malik doesn't count that time in Jerusalem—can't count it, for his own stability. (_I'm sorry, I'm sorry._) But once Altair had become Grandmaster and recalled Malik back to Masyaf, once his fear of failing had been made clear (made clear to Malik, anyway, amazed as always at how everyone around them kept falling for Altair's confident veneer), how many times then? Near countless. The two of them grasping for things that were familiar, still tense around each other, the not-so-old poisons liable to bubble forth at any time…and every time they fucked there was acerbity, like something rotten deep down. At every stolen moment they snuck away, daring in their blatancy, and every time Altair sucked Malik's cock it was a tacky sort of penitence.

Their coupling dwindled, though, after Maria. Altair comes to Malik far less and Malik never searches the other man out. A dozen times, in the past eleven years? Maybe a time or two more? The feel of a muscular body against his, the press of teeth on his neck, these are things Malik usually does without.

He is brought roughly back to the present by Altair's mouth working down his chest, stopping briefly to bite at his nipple. Malik knocks off the man's cowl, buries his fist in his hair and pulls hard. Altair allows it for a second.

Then Malik finds himself on his back on his desk, panting with his robes bunched around his shoulders. Ointment bottles are scattered and break against the floor. His hardening prick strains against the inside of his breeches; he waits with a show of impatience for Altair's hands and mouth.

Altair leans over him. His eyes drift in a very unlike-him way, more dazed than lustful. He puts his hands on Malik's shoulders, moves them down under the clothing to touch skin, but he stops abruptly when the one hand reaches the amputation.

Malik frowns. This hesitancy is unusual, and frustrating. "Yes," he says, voice withering but a little breathy, "Yes, there's nothing there. Congratulations on your discovery. Is that all you came to see?"

But Altair has no retort, smirking or otherwise. "Your hand," he says, distractedly.

"Burns from the fire. It's nothing."

"You shouldn't have gone in there."

"_Now_ you want to discuss this?! A second ago your mouth was too busy for lectures."

Altair picks up the offending hand by the wrist, studies it, brings it to his mouth. Malik squirms, reacting more with bafflement than lust as Altair sucks at his fingers. It's awkward enough having sex with Altair, knowing he's married and a father. This sudden softness isn't helping.

Keeping his grip tight on Malik's wrist, Altair lowers the hand down its owner's body, trailing down his chest to the lip of his breeches. Malik, understanding, pulls his hand free and his prick out. Gently at first he strokes himself, and then harder, pressing his palm tight against the shaft. Altair watches, breathing hard.

"Malik," he whispers.

"Mm," says Malik, distracted now himself. The urge is building, wanting more than his own hand, wanting Altair on him or in him or both.

"Malik, you…"

"Undress yourself, Grandmaster. I want, _nh_, I want you to…"

"Malik," says Altair a third time, still leaning over him, still fully dressed, "why aren't you _blue_?"

The _Dai's_ hand stills. "…What?"

"Gold isn't right. It's just as she said. You do it to taunt me, I think." So saying, Altair reaches for Malik's prick. Malik stares at him, and then realizes, and wants to strangle them both.

He settles for cracking his elbow against Altair's jaw as he sits up and tries to make himself decent. The Grandmaster sits down hard, a hand to his jaw, and blinks.

"_Idiot_," shouts Malik, getting to his feet in a fluster. "Brainless fool!"

"I am not…"

"Oh, don't make me mention what _you_ are, _Master_. I should have noticed at the start. You were using _it_ again."

"It?"

"The Apple! And now your head is filled with sand. What if there was an attack on the fortress tonight, Altair? What if there was some crisis? What should I have said to the others? 'Sorry, the Grandmaster cannot lead you in battle today, as he currently thinks he's in ancient Rome!"'

"An attack tonight seems unlikely," Altair mutters, still rubbing his jaw from the floor.

"Al Mualim often vanished in the latter years of his rule," snaps Malik in response. "It did the Order no favors, so why you seek to emulate him…!"

The forbidden mention of his old mentor pulls something of Altair back into his body. He rises to his feet in open anger: "You go too far, Malik. Watch your tongue."

_Again it works,_ thinks Malik with wry relief. _Again it was enough to bring you back. And if next time you are too far gone to remember where or who you are, too far gone to come back?_

"Well?" barks Altair.

"Well, what?"

"Normally an assassin apologizes to his Master when the Master is displeased."

"That would require me caring what the Master thinks, which I assure you I do not. Besides, I'm under orders never to apologize. Unless," –Malik looks at him sharply– "Unless you don't remember that decree. What else don't you remember? Do you know what village you're in?"

"We're in the fortress, don't be so inane."

"_Where_ is the fortress?"

"Masyaf! Because I don't remember every word I've ever said to you, I've lost my mind?"

"Because you come staggering in here like a horny drunkard—"

"_Said bousak_."

"I'll shut my mouth when I've finished speaking and not before."

"I have no patience for another one of your lectures."

"Why would you come in here as if I'd want you when you were possessed? Did you think I was pining for you that much? Out of your mind and you thought I'd be interested? So typical, Altair."

Altair stiffens his shoulders. "I've other things to do then listen to you whine," he says coldly, and takes a step for the door. But his legs waver, nearly fall out from underneath him, and he has to press a palm against the wall to steady himself. Malik bites back a groan.

"You can't leave yet," he says, calmer. "The others can't see you looking like this."

Altair doesn't answer.

"Look, why don't you rest for a while? Give the ghouls a chance to leave your head."

"They aren't ghouls," says Altair. But he lets Malik take him by the arm and pull him over to the bed, where he stands frowning at the pillows. "And you?" he asks. "Where will you sleep?"

"I wasn't planning on sleeping for a while yet. There's paperwork to finish and afterwards I'm going to check on Tazim. He's been restless these past nights." Altair frowns but keeps silent. "Unless you'd rather not be alone?"

"What do I care?" mutters the other man. "I wouldn't be, anyway. I'd _rather_ be alone, if he'd give me a moment's peace."

Malik pinches the bridge of his nose. The Piece of Eden's hold is too strong. It leaves traces of itself, scabs that Altair will be picking at for days, mumbling like an addict. Which is, in Malik's esteemed opinion, what he is.

"What can it show you?" he wonders aloud, half-accidentally. "What can it show you that's worth this?"

"Everything," says Altair, without hesitation. He sits on the bed, sits but doesn't lie down, legs spread and hands held still between them. Even now his posture is that of the consummate assassin, every muscle in his body held ready to strike.

But he hasn't pulled his cowl back up. Malik sits down beside him, awkward because he still has a flagging erection, and looks at him quite openly. Their friendship is worth nothing if he can't figure all this out.

"Tell me, Malik," says Altair after a moment, and his tone is hazy again, his eyes unfocused. "You remember Jerusalem?"

"Of course."

"You remember the last time in Jerusalem? When we…"

Malik sucks in a noisy breath. "Enough, Altair," he says. "Enough for tonight."

"But you do remember." Altair's eyes dart to meet his. "Don't you? And what you said. You never mentioned it again. I don't know if you meant it."

"Altair, stop."

"But _do_ you remember?" the Son of None insists. Malik, despite himself, knows he's helpless to resist. It has always been the fatal flaw of both of them: to crave and covet, to never let anything alone.

_Do you remember? _Jerusalem, when everything between them was a shambles, soaked through with blood and bile, Jerusalem and what Malik said there, in the shadow of his brother's grave.

"Yes," he says, and Altair shivers beside him. And maybe it was unavoidable. Maybe Malik was a novice himself, in this bizarre world the Son of None has created for the both of them, to think such things could be forgotten while in the background the Apple always prods.

"I remember what I said," says Malik, and before he can put words to what he means (that certain things should stay buried, that they have enough recent histrionics without adding the moldering ones to the pile), Altair gives another shudder and falls against him.

Cursing to mask his astonishment, Malik tugs the semi-conscious Grandmaster off and over, until his body is at least mostly on the bed. He stands over, putting his face close to Altair's to catch the feel of breath on his cheek. "Novice," he says loudly, and Altair's eyebrows furrow for a quick moment before smoothing out.

Sighing, Malik straightens up. Nothing to do now but let the Son of None sleep off the Apple's drugging pull. And then tomorrow, or whenever the man wakes up, he will be lucid and have some fantastic weapon design for the Order to ooh over, and he will look unruffled and clever and _godlike_—

And only Malik will know Altair as he is when the Apple has him, Altair babbling, caught in memories he spends the rest of his days avoiding. A stronger second-in-command would take his concerns to the others, if the Brotherhood was really what he lived to serve.

But Malik serves Grandmaster Altair. He is not strong enough to do otherwise.

He watches the Son of None in his fitful rest, knowing nothing of what demons the man fights in his dreams, knowing only that he himself is not able to kill them. Knowing that he is a failure in this as in so much else in his life.

Knowing that it is still so gratifying to see Altair suffer.

_Do you remember what you said in Jerusalem?_

* * *

AN: Thanks to _skywalker05_ for getting the fighting started! First of several flashback-chapters is next.


	4. Before

AN: My goal with the flashback chapters is that they read almost as stand-alone pieces; ideally, when this fic is finished, you'd be able to just read the flashbacks and have a cohesive story. That way I can work in two time periods without narrating the entire game verbatim. If it sounds familiar it isn't mine. Also: all the love for Haaz Sleiman's voice acting.

* * *

_Jerusalem_

_Before_

Long before he arrives, Malik knows Altair is coming.

He is the _Dai _of Jerusalem, after all, and has been so for nearly two years. His web of informants is an intricate one, his understanding of how the city functions absolute. Every time a guard takes a bribe or a caravan smuggles in untaxed goods, Malik has already guessed whether the guard will be discovered or the caravan master betrayed. His men at the bureau are loyal to the point of death.

And so he has much warning of Altair's mission, even before one of Al Mualim's pigeons comes flapping in. It is slipped to him in wary tones, by a nervous journeyman new to Jerusalem and well versed in the myth of fearsome _Dai_ Malik. His anger is legendary in the city, kept at a permanent simmer, easily boiled over. Malik takes the news well, though, giving the messenger the briefest of raised eyebrows and then turning back to his work. It's as if he's forgotten who Altair is, and what Altair did.

Later, when the journeymen under his bureau roof have stopped muttering and sending him perplexed looks when they think he can't see, Malik steps out from behind his desk and climbs to the roof. There are three entrances out of the bureau: the assassins slip through the hidden roof grate and oblivious customers walk through the front door. The third is known only by the _Dai, _a narrow staircase of cool stone and dust.

On the roof, Malik stands with his feet at the very edge and looks out over the city. His city. He knows it in brown and green and spurts of red. She robbed him so mercilessly, did Jerusalem, the whore, fought over by everyone for every stupid reason since the first light of the world. How he hates the thought of her.

How comfortable he feels within her walls. Malik has only been back to Masyaf once since his promotion and it could have been any village but it wasn't home. In Masyaf he'd been a stranger. In Masyaf they still stared. Malik makes the novices in Masyaf _uncomfortable_.

Not until he left did he feel himself relax. Passing by a public fountain, green with mold, crowded with women washing laundry and children, he caught a glimpse of himself in the water: eyes shadowed and sunken, beard allowed to darken, the sword strapped to his waist not as clean as it might be. The missing arm.

Only in brutal Jerusalem can he recognize himself.

Jerusalem is a city carved from the desert rock to be a holy place, and so it has become for him—a twisted, bitter place that has plenty of room for his own bitterness. Kadar died here, and here Malik stands watching the city that killed him. Yes, it is his holy place! It holds the bones of the martyr.

He stares out at the sand-colored buildings that wrap around in every direction. Jerusalem in this season is surprisingly cool at night and lush, green with wildflowers that grow in the cracks of old roads. The various religions have cornered themselves off but in a place like this there can't help but be some bleed-through, and so Malik sees Christian monks walking past Muslim _madrassah_ students, who pour out of squat rooms tacked on behind mosques. Farther in the distance, not far from the Temple ruins, is the city's largest synagogue, stars carved into wooden slats painted a peeling green. The roof is high and steeply pointed, perhaps to compete with the many minarets and church bell towers.

Balconies sprinkle shade in scorching daylight, wash-lines stretch between buildings put together out of scrap metal, refugees squat by open sewers and linger by the benches in the many little, public gardens.

He knows every alleyway by sight and foot's memory. It's expected of a _Dai_ to know his city and of a mapmaker to know his world, but more than any of that Malik refuses to be caught unaware again.

Still, it can be very overwhelming. With heaviness in his chest he can only now, alone, reflect on, Malik closes his eyes to Jerusalem's cacophony.

Altair Ibn La'Ahad is coming here.

Malik has heard of his ridiculous redemption quest, how he goes from city to city killing those deemed unworthy by their Master. All are supposedly Templars, although rumor has it Altair has been questioning his targets in detail before dispatching them. Typical. Even now he would prove everyone but himself incorrect. Altair has been to Damascus and Acre and now he will come here. To Malik's refuge.

It's his instinct to refuse him entrance, regardless of Al Mualim's orders. Is there not some other name, in some other place, to give the Son of None? Can't one of Malik's own men kill this target? If Malik walked until his feet bled and sat with the _djinn_ of forgotten places, would that be far enough away? Will Altair never die, never _leave_?

But interfering might be a mistake. It might suggest to the idiot that Malik has spent the past two years seething over—and in seething, remembering—the Son of None. And he hasn't, truly. It's another one of Jerusalem's backwards boons, that he has been too busy trying to keep the city stable to think much of Altair. Of what Altair might be doing at any given moment. Whether he has spent all this time alone.

Malik has not been alone, not by far, and if Altair is coming here than that is what he should see. "I have been doing my duties," he says out loud. And it's true.

So, fine. Let Altair enter the Jerusalem bureau. Let him be treated as any other bumbling novice playing fetch for their Master. Fine. The King of Swords keeps his eyes shut. The wind's weak breath brushes his face.

He opens his eyes and, with cat's grace, jumps.

His black robes open and billow. He drops through thick night air, the clearing rains still some weeks away. His boots hit the cracked street without sound, as he lands lightly, toes a split second before heel, the rest of him in a neat crouch. It was a battle to regain his balance after the amputation but he has won it: he has turned it into a rout for his demons.

As though he'd intended to all along, Malik walks out of the alleyway and through a cluster of shacks to his left, then turns at a bit of broken statuary and moves past a row of benches clustered around a dry fountain. At this hour the benches are empty, but not the streets; cloaked figures hurry around corners and up weather-worn stairs. The occasional quilted jacket and brown turban of the city watch can be seen, the men wearing them hard-eyed and unfailingly bearded, hands always clamped to the hilts of their swords.

Malik isn't worried. He only raises his cowl for protection.

He wonders what message Al Mualim's pigeon will bring when it arrives. Which of Jerusalem's many villains has been marked for death? Malik runs some likely names through his head but doesn't feel much besides disgust for this latest charade. The truth is there's no one, to his knowledge, who _needs_ to die, right now, for stability's sake. Al Mualim may have his own reasons…or it may be another one of his games. Another test.

Malik brings his hand to his shoulder. The old man of the mountain does so love his blood sacrifices.

But it's Altair, not Al Mualim, who has caused so much trouble. Malik fantasizes for a moment about giving him an incorrect map when he comes, in hopes that he'll follow it right off the edge of the Mount of Olives. Or, better yet, he'll give him _no_ map. Let Altair do the hard work on his own, and then when he fails and blunders into a Templar hideout, close the bureau's roof grate and let him save his own ass.

Malik grimaces, lowering his hand. As nice, as necessary, as it is to imagine Altair an untalented fool, it isn't true. He has always been a magnificent fighter.

The _Dai's_ feet take him deep into the sleeping city, trailing the cobblestones past trash heaps and arches. Once he crosses a wide thoroughfare, one of the main roads towards Jerusalem's great, domed _souk;_ in daylight it would be just visible at the road's far end, blocked by merchants' stands and palm trees browning in the sun. At night the road is empty, the stands shuttered, the crowds elsewhere, the _souk_ lost to the dark.

Malik crosses the main road quickly, turns left up a flight of steep steps, and left again past an alcove crammed with sleeping figures. What awake men he passes—and at this hour they are all men—are of similar condition, muttering in dirty cloaks, stumbling along the paths. Drunkards, or lepers. Malik nods at a few he recognizes, because this is not his first nighttime trek and Jerusalem's poorest can be great sources of information for the bureau, but mostly he keeps his distance.

His feet carry him on. They know where he's going even if he goes there without thought.

The road he is on now is a cramped, ugly one. Buildings on either side list tiredly, each forced to hold up its neighbor's weight as well as its own. There are hay carts, ladders propped up to reach roof apartments, and a lot more heaps of trash, but here there are no gardens. No public fountains. Only the stench of too many people with too many sickly children living on top of each other, in a place where even Jerusalem's sun struggles to reach.

He stops for a moment at a fork in the road, judging the noises around him. A bench along one wall has been claimed by a sleeping figure, wrapped in enough rags to be sexless. A structure across the way claims with etchings of cross and crucifix to be a church, but the one window it has is shattered and there are some suspicious stains by the door.

And there are footsteps, behind him and ahead. This deep into the slums it could be anyone: soldiers looking for fun or whores looking for trade, more beggars, petty criminals. Not-so-petty criminals. A district to avoid, especially at night. But Malik goes where others wouldn't. He has left enough groaning pickpockets behind to ensure the criminal elements of the city know not to bother the men in white.

He keeps walking.

Finally he reaches a row of wooden huts, all much smaller than the buildings they're surrounded by, each with a lone window. He passes by without glancing at them, stops at the end of the road to wait. Mud seeps around his boots, an unfortunate thing, because it's been a while since there was rain. He looks back and sees a lantern has gone on in one of the huts, its light gleaming through the window.

Malik lowers his cowl. In contrast, the figure that slips from the hut is wearing his, using the grey fabric to almost vanish into the dark. Only when he draws close to Malik can his features be seen.

"Safety and peace, _Dai_," says Raed with his usual formality, and bows. Malik returns the greeting and pulls his cowl up again, for safety's sake. "I wasn't sure if it was you or someone else," Raed comments. "But no one else would walk past with such confidence in the middle of the night."

"I hope I didn't wake you. How are things here?"

"We're making progress, I think. You were right, the poor districts were completely ignored under the last _Dai._ He must have spent all his time wooing the rich king-makers."

"He was a fool. Not worth a thing compared to Faraj." Malik brushes away this blackness. "But we've corrected that mistake."

"Indeed. Some of the big names around here, the thief-lords and such, have pledged their loyalties. If the Templars seek to make inroads with the poor here, they'll find it hard going."

"I doubt they'll try. It's one of that Order's many flaws. They are so concerned with ruling the world they forget there are people living in it. You'll find Templars masquerading as knights but never as beggars or apprentices."

Raed shakes his head. "I've often wondered what exactly they want."

"Power and riches and our heads on pikes, of course. What else could they want?"  
"Yes. _Dai_?"

"What is it?"

"Ah…" Raed hesitates, looking perplexed. "Did you come all the way here at this hour to discuss Order business? I was going to come by the bureau tomorrow with a full report."

Malik shakes his head. "No. I'm not sure why I came. Wanted to see the city, I suppose, make sure it was still standing. And then I ended up here."

Raed nods. "Your reasons are your own, of course."

"Still, I apologize for bothering you."

"You are a better visitor than most we could have had at this hour."

At this, Malik frowns. "Raed—"

"But don't worry about that," insists the other man with a smile, "as I've told you."

"And I've told you, there's no need for you to take this assignment. You have a family. There are safer parts of the city I could put you."

"But this is where the most work needs doing. I told you I would serve you, Lord."

"Serve me as a spy in the rich districts, then. This neighborhood is no place for your children, or your wife."

"She knew when we married that she was marrying an assassin. Besides, she's formed her own little alliances with the women here, at the well and the market. It's amazing how much men will say in front of their forgotten wives!"

Malik says, "Our Order would be incompetent without ladies' gossip. Thank her for me. But they gossip in the better parts of Jerusalem too, you know. They gossip just as loudly in Masyaf."

"But you are here," Raed says firmly. "In this city."

"That doesn't mean you need to be."

Raed frowns, ducks his head. Malik can read the tinge of irritation in how he tugs at his beard. "I told you," he says, "that for what you did I would follow you anywhere. To the edge of the earth."

"Yes…" Malik's eyes dim, remembering. He'd saved Raed's family in the first Templar attack on Masyaf, and then…then, much later, while he lay wrapped in bandages, half-dead with his burden, Raed came again and promised absolute allegiance.

Malik had asked Al Mualim for Altair's head, and when he'd been denied—the Master with his secret plans—he'd asked for two other things, one of which was to be sent out of the village. Sent anywhere else. And as it happened the current _Dai_ of Jerusalem was unhappy with his post…

Malik knew Jerusalem then as Faraj's lost city, as Kadar's. He knew it as a place of ghosts, which was why he accepted the position. And when he'd begun packing for the move (the healers fretting around him and his stitches until he scattered them like pigeons), Raed had come to him a third time, when others hadn't. Something Malik doesn't intend to forget.

"Well," he says now, "Jerusalem isn't quite the edge of the earth, although this bit might as well be." He scratches at the back of his neck, while Raed waits patiently. "I suppose I didn't come here in the middle of the night to argue with you, either."

"_Dai_," says Raed, slowly, "I heard the news about Altair today."

Malik's hand stills. "What about him?"

"That he's coming here—"

"On some fool's errand. It's of no concern to me." Malik starts walking, once again led by his feet rather than the other way around. This time, though, Raed trails after.

"Altair!" says Malik. "You see how he does it? One mention of him and the whole Order falls to whispering like old biddies at the well."

"Gossip is useful, you just said."

"Gossip _can_ be useful." He glowers, stamping hard on the stone. "There is nothing _useful_ about Ibn La'Ahad. He's no better than a hired killer."

Raed says nothing. It's better that way, else Malik might have to openly admit how silly he sounds.

They walk in silence for some time. Malik has an urge to take to the rooftops, to climb until he can't climb any higher and then lose himself in the flight down. But instead he stops by a stack of crates and presses his palm to one, mindless of the pinprick of splinters. Raed, a step behind, also stops.

"It annoys me that he's coming here," says Malik at last, to the crates. "This is my place. I've shed a lot of blood to make it so."

"Refuse him your help, then. It's within your rights. As _Dai_ you have to let him into the bureau, but you don't have to aid his quest."

"Is that what you think I should do?"

"I think you should do whatever brings you peace, Lord."

"I can't kill him, so there's little hope of that."

"Would it make you happy?" wonders the other man. "If Altair died?"

Malik frowns. "No. The lucky die. The unlucky suffer."

"From the sound of things he has suffered…"

"He doesn't know what it means! You have to be whole to be able to shatter." Malik realizes he is shouting and tempers his voice. "I'd like to take him back to Solomon's Temple. Maybe then he'd learn."

"With respect, _Dai_, why have you never gone back there? It's on the outskirts of your city but you avoid it as though it was a hundred miles off."

"Is that so strange?"

"No, but we know the Templars used to gather there. And also, the, the body may still be—"

"It isn't. You think Robert de Sablé left it there? You think his group of bastards didn't…? Hah!" Malik snarls his laugh past his throat. "I made that choice once already. Something else Altair has yet to realize."

He's shouting again. Raed looks somber. "I'm sorry," Malik makes himself say. "It's too late for this. I should be at the bureau anyway, waiting for Al Mualim's pigeon."

"Lord, I think…"

"Go home," Malik orders. After a second he thinks to add, "And stop calling me Lord," but Raed doesn't smile.

"I hope you find some comfort out here," is all he says. Then he does turn to go.

"Raed," says Malik. The assassin stops and looks over his shoulder. "I lied before. I don't care who it makes happy. But I want Altair dead. With all my being I want that. I want to see the look on his face when he realizes there are _consequences_. He acts as if he's never been hurt before, when we were so…"

"I know you two were very close," Raed says without much inflection. Malik wonders just what rumors he's heard. It's been a long time since he's thought of Abbas, but somehow he doubts absence has made Abbas's ugly tongue grow fonder.

"He killed my brother," says Malik, "and he doesn't care. I want him to care! I want to give him wounds that won't close, that keep him awake and groaning in bed—I want him to see how fucking _alone_ he is and then I want him dead."

Raed says, "If he really has been tasked with nine executions, you might get your wish." But he says it with something very close to pity, and pity is something Malik cannot stand.

"Go back, Raed," he shouts, and punches the crate. His fist goes through dry, crumbling wood, and the whole stack gives way with a dusty clatter. A dog starts barking, a few windows nearby show flares of light. And Raed, ever-loyal, leaves the _Dai_ of Jerusalem alone with the wreckage.

_-i-_

Altair arrives three weeks later. It is a hot day and the bureau is stifling, the smoke from the incense vials Malik keeps lit not enough to mask the smell of human sweat. Someone drops lightly down from the roof grate. The light streaming in from the entry room, bright with the late afternoon, shows a long shadow straightening up. Malik, behind his wooden counter, hears him land and _knows_ it's him, and feels so nauseous the world tilts.

Altair strides in as if he has done this many times. The bureau walls should crumble and the ground should sway, the whole city should rise up in disgust but instead it lets him stand here.

His shoulders are squared, his cowl raised. It's the first time they've seen each other in nearly two years, and somehow he still looks the same. Oh, his robes are scoured of ornamentation and his only weapon is a sword strapped to his back, but Al Mualim let him keep his white robes. He is still tall and lissome and braced for quick movement. Malik has spent the last years thinking him a monster—it comes as something of a shock to remember that Altair is brutally handsome.

"Safety and peace, Malik," he says, so smoothly. As if there aren't years of difference between them. Why does he still hold himself like such a _hero_?

"Your presence here deprives me of both." Malik tries for frosty disinterest but comes off, he thinks, as dull. To salvage himself he adds, "What do you want?" before Altair can comment. Before there can be any hope in the Son of None's mind that they might talk as if they were past acquaintances.

"Al Mualim has asked that I—"

But even to let the murderer speak is too much. Malik snaps over him, "That you perform some _menial_ tasks in an effort to redeem yourself. So be _out_ with it."

"Tell me what you can about the one they call Talal," Altair says. If he is ruffled he doesn't show it.

Images of the man in question flick through Malik's head. Talal's a local arms-dealer, selling war booty to both sides if rumor can be trusted. The _Dai_ has had men shadowing him for some time, after hearing reports of Talal adding slavery to his list of merchandise, an act Malik refuses to allow in his city. But he hasn't called for the man's death just yet, because the rumors don't say who is getting the slaves. It isn't the Crusaders or the Saracens, he's pretty sure, and so to keep what must be a wide slavery ring from going into hiding he has been treading carefully.

All ruined now, of course. The ring, if it exists, will scatter once Talal is killed, and also…

also…

Altair is standing in Malik's bureau and staring at him. It is intolerable.

"It is your duty to locate and assassinate the man," Malik says tightly, "not mine."

"You'd do well to assist me. His death benefits the entire land."

('You'd do well'_._ And in the past it was, 'maybe you'll learn something', and, 'I am your superior'. The Master thinks this creature is capable of redemption?)

"Do you deny his death benefits you as well?"

Finally Altair looks riled. Nervous, maybe. He tosses his head: "Such things do not concern me." And that casual arrogance is more than can be born.

"Your actions _very much concern me_," Malik roars, and jabs his hand at his left shoulder. From throughout the bureau come the sounds of eavesdropping journeymen flinching backwards, into each other and assorted bits of pottery. Altair doesn't flinch, but he does drop his head. Malik can see his hands, wound tight into fists, the knuckles white with pressure.

Not enough. Not enough that Altair should flinch from the amputation. Let him flinch from the rest of his crimes! Malik struggles for a few hours of sleep each night, wanders the bureau for hours more, knowing even if he can't see them that ghosts crowd the halls: let Altair flinch from _Kadar_, if he wants to play at fear!

"Goddamn you," Malik hisses, straining for calm. He mustn't look as though he cares. Altair sucks in a noisy breath before lifting up his head.

"Then don't help me," he says, but perhaps there is a trace of desperation hidden behind the petulance. "I'll find Talal myself."

It's tempting to let him storm off, tempting to damn him to his own future, for Malik has had enough of their fates being tied. But Malik is also the leader of this bureau; this is his place, and he will not let Altair cause it damage.

"Wait." He sighs, loudly, brimming with impatience. "It won't do, having you stumble about the city like a blind man. Better you know where to begin your search."

"I'm listening."

"I can think of three places," and this is happening, they are having this conversation, Malik is giving Altair information when he should be tearing out his throat. This is the truth, then: Malik knows he is a coward. "To the south of here, in the markets that line the border between the Muslim and Jewish districts. To the north, near the largest mosque of this district. And at the eastern side of St. Ann's Church."

"Is that everything?"

"It's enough to get you started," Malik growls, "and more than you deserve."

Altair lingers a second too long. Something suspicious, something hesitant, crosses his face. To disrupt this the _Dai_ reaches under his counter for a heavy book of maps he keeps handy, pulls it out and slams it down as hard as he can. "Well?" he demands. "I've given you all the help you'll get. Why are you still here?" And before Altair can answer: "I doubt Talal is hiding in my bureau. Attend to your task!"

He flips the book open to a page, pulls a quill from its inkpot and begins to write. He can feel Altair's eyes on him, watching him work. _Yes,_ he thinks, _I'm nothing like you remember, am I? It's more than my arm you've changed in me._

When he looks up, Altair is gone, out there in Jerusalem trampling on graves. Malik expects to feel relief, but there is only a dull abhorrence, like an open sore left to throb.

_-i-_

Altair does not return that day, or that night, or the day after. Malik considers sending some of his most dependable men after him—men who won't spread stories of their leader's obsession. But on the second night Altair drops down into the entryway and moves for the fountains. The crowd of assassins washing there falls silent and scatters. What had been a full room empties in seconds.

If Altair notices that his Brothers treat him as a leper victim, he gives no sign. At the fountain he splashes water over his (bruised, sunburnt) face, then dips his head in for a long drink. Malik is at his counter in the next room, still at work updating a map of the roads to Acre. He doesn't say a thing to Altair's shadow when it crosses his desk.

But when Altair himself looks in, well. That is different.

"Hoping I might do your job for you?" Malik asks icily, without raising his eyes from his map. Without checking to see what new wounds Altair might have gathered. "Have you found Talal? Are you ready for your mission?"

"…No," Altair admits.

Now Malik does look at him. It's expected that journeymen on assignments check in nightly with the local bureau leaders. It isn't expected that Altair ever bothers to do so, because he never has before, and no one's ever chastised him. But as the _Dai_ reminds himself now Altair is not the Master Assassin for whom rules are ignored. He's not even a journeyman. He's a lowly novice.

"There is more for me to learn," says Altair, slowly.

Malik taps his quill to the desk. "In that we agree," he says. "Get out of my bureau."

"I would spend the night here. It's my right as an assassin…"

"As a novice assassin you shouldn't even be outside Masyaf. Go. Sleep on the rooftop. If it rains hold your mouth open and drown."

"Your problems with me don't justify your breaking the Creed—"

Malik drops the quill and puts his hand to a hidden blade's hilt. "Finish your sentence," he says murderously. "Finish your sentence, or else obey orders and _get the fuck out of my bureau_."

Altair leaves.

_-i-_

He goes back and forth, does the King of Swords. One day he might be so calm it is a caricature, a frozen anger worse than his heat. He might let Altair sleep with the other assassins in the bureau at night. He might ignore him when the man slips in to tend his injuries, and as the days go by there are many injuries, much blood splattering thinly to the floor. The journeymen help each other bandage wounds and when a hurt is beyond them they go to Malik's well-trained men. But no one ever helps Altar.

On those days Malik can sense Altair watching him, bandages inexpertly wrapped about his arms, ankle swollen from a mistimed jump at the end of a chase. Malik knows if he were to look he'd see Altair rubbing his wrist where his hidden blade should be, watching him. Waiting for…what? An opening? A thawing?

On those days Malik acts as if he is fine.

But then the next day he will be fury personified, snapping at everyone from Raed on down. He is short to the informants, cutting to the journeymen, and once he is so outright rude to an important thief-lord that one of his men gently suggests he leave the information-haggling to others for a while.

Woe to Altair when he appears on those days. He's liable to have things thrown at him. He's liable to be called _traitor, bastard, whoremother's dirty half-breed_. Once he says, "I overheard some men talking of Talal's warehouse. They say it is heavily guarded by Talal's own men. The man himself is a master archer," and in response Malik slams his fist against the desk.

"You tell me nothing new, nothing I need to know. Al Mualim is toying with us both. And what—that cut on your wrist?"

"A guard's lucky strike. It's minor."

"It is a _shame_. You filthy my floors with your mess? Get a rag and _clean_ it."

Altair does as he's told, silently fetching a cloth, then getting to his hands and knees and scrubbing the floor. Bemused journeymen gather around the spectacle. He's pale with anger and embarrassment.

Malik comes around the counter to watch. He waits until the blood is mopped up and then, carefully, steps only inches from Altair's fingers, leaving a dark boot print. The Son of None sits back and glares at him. "Well?" Malik says. "It's still dirty. Back to work, Altair."

Altair throws the rag down and gets to his feet. The other assassins sense a change in the air, a crackling of tension, and make quick exits. Malik smiles openly. Here, at last: his chance.

"I have been out for days," says Altair, "doing my duty. Searching out information on Talal, information you already _know_. I haven't said anything to your little abuses. They don't bother me so much as they seem to entertain you. But this is enough. I'm not a straw dummy for you to practice on. Hinder the Master's orders, if you wish, hinder my work. But do not treat me as a fool."

"Finished?" asks Malik. "Because you aren't finished with the floor."

Altair throws himself at the _Dai._ Malik sideswipes a couple of punches, hand kept still at his side. Altair curses and lunges for him again…

And from a darkened doorway at the room's other end Raed comes forward, grabs the Son of None by the back of his cowl and yanks him backwards. Then he slams the off-balance assassin against the nearest wall and holds him there, arm pressed against his neck. Malik watches Altair scrabble for freedom and then, glowering, drop his arms. Raed only eases off when Malik nods; the disgraced man keeps himself by the wall, one hand at his throat.

Malik walks up to him, under Raed's sharp gaze, and stands very close. Here are the lips that have pressed against his neck, he marvels. The hands that have clutched his shoulders. Here are the hips that have bucked against his own.

"Watch yourself here, murderer," he says softly. "You are as welcome as a Templar in this place, and you have fewer allies. Don't test my hospitality, Altair."

But maybe he has misjudged. For Altair doesn't scowl or look away. Instead he smiles a little, thin-lipped, mean. "You love to call me a murderer," he says. "Well, the punishment for murder is death. Here I am, _Dai_ Malik. You want me dead so badly? Then kill me. Or can bureau leaders do nothing but talk?"

Malik turns away, dismissing him. "Your blood isn't worthy of my blade," he says. "Show him the exit, Raed."

"I know it," snaps Altair, and stalks from the room. The minute he's gone Malik slumps against the counter.

"Lord," says Raed, "perhaps you should not…"

"It doesn't matter," says Malik. "Go home. Go somewhere else."

The other man pauses. "You wish to be alone?"

"Alone? Here? But it's impossible. This place is filled with ghosts. What, don't you see them?"

"I, I'm not sure I…"

"Go and be with your family. I would rather be here with mine."

Malik swears he hears whispers, long after Raed is gone, long after the few journeymen who choose to spend the night have fallen asleep. "Call me a coward, then," he says out loud. And in the empty room he swears someone does.

_-i-_

It helps to focus on his work. Map-making is a task that requires much concentration, and with relief Malik unwraps the fresh parchment and daps his quill into the ink. Solid lines for country borders, thin for city walls; a light hand with the known oceans, lighter still for the places that as yet only demons have found. He closes his eyes and they lay before him, Jerusalem and Damascus and Arsuf. And more than just them. The world with all its pockets of known and unknown, truth and fable.

He remembers _Dai_ Faraj as he draws, and maybe that's what gives his work such quality. His script is always well-formed and legible, his keys always easy to follow, his distances to perfect scale. Assassins come from other cities for his maps, trusting his explanation of Paris or Rome when he has never left the Levant.

Malik presses the point of his compass to the center of his map, or calculates the position of a building he's never seen in a mental flurry of newly invented math, and what he's really doing is filling in the planet's missing spaces. He uses techniques explained to him in part by Faraj and in part by the books he buys off traveling merchants, cripplingly expensive things written out by students of great scholars from as far away as the Rajput kingdoms, from as long ago as Euclid's ilk. Some cartographers still scoff at the new concepts, all triangles and theorems, and that makes Malik's maps the most accurate for miles in any direction. His is a modern place, as much a house of learning as any _madrassah_.

But he's really just filling in the holes.

The world is large and ugly, and deep with cracks. If he doesn't mark out every inch of every desperate village he will be lost, or else, forgotten. Malik clings to his mapmaking because mapmaking is a kind of fortune-telling: here you will go, and these things you will see. This is how you will prepare for your destiny, when it takes you to where dragons be.

While Altair is in his city Malik draws his maps, or looks at the ones already drawn. Some of them are basic and worn from frequent use. Some of them, buried in the stacks, are older and of rarer places. And some—ones that were swelling with humidity long before Malik was _Dai_, before Faraj, before Al Mualim's order was a flicker of a thought—some are so old and cryptic they are very dangerous indeed.

Who knows how they came to be in the bureau, the old maps, the maps to places not meant for common travel. Maps to the _Alamin_, not just the earth but the whole of creation. Maps of the _djinn_-places, the worlds within worlds. Who knows how any human knew to draw these things. But they are here now, in the heaps, and perhaps one of them is a map of hell and Paradise. Malik would like to find that one, if it exists.

Hell, he thinks wryly, would look a lot like the entryway where Altair sits in a dispersion of pillows, washing his sword. Hell is in his bureau. So he brings out a fresh sheaf of paper, and begins to draw.

_-i-_

"Malik."

It is three weeks since Altair's arrival, nearly four, and Kadar is still dead and Malik's arm still gone, and his thoughts are still nails being driven between his fingers. So the _Dai _does not look up.

"Come to waste more of my time?"

"I've found Talal," the Son of None announces. "I'm ready to begin my mission."

"That is for me to decide."

There is a pause while Altair visibly reins in his frustration, a vein pulsing in his neck. "Very well," he grits out. "Here's what I know. He traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem's citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located north of here. As we speak he prepares a caravan for travel, so I'll strike while he inspects his stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself will provide little challenge."

"Little challenge? Listen to you! Such arrogance."

"Are we finished? Are you satisfied?"

In disgust Malik shakes his head. "No. But it will have to do." From under his desk he pulls a white feather from a pile of them, and thrusts it at the other man. "I do not want to hear from you again until that feather is soaked with blood," he tells him. "Either Talal's or your own will suffice."

"Very well. But I still need to finalize my plans before I—"

"Rest, prepare, cry in the corner," he says with a dismissive wave. "Do whatever it is you do before a mission. Only make sure you do it quietly."

It isn't so simple, of course; with Altair it never is. Talal hires his own men and pays them well for loyalty. They guard an entire corner of Jerusalem's richest district, dutifully ignored by the poorly trained and poorly paid city guards. They are all expert archers, and even Altair knows better than to think he can survive such a maelstrom. So he lingers in the bureau for days more, plotting, hit by Malik's taunts for every arrow that might miss.

"What is it, Altair?" the _Dai_ sings on the second day. "Come to admit defeat?"

"I'm resting."

"Does this look like Paradise to you? You should be killing Talal, not cowering in my bureau. Go and finish your mission."

On the third: "You're making wonderful progress. Oh, wait! You're not. But don't worry. I'm sure that if you wait here, Talal will simply die of old age."

With the fourth day comes a frazzling heat, and a novice assassin who still sits in the entryway watching his betters work. Snaps Malik, "They say Talal still lives, which begs the question: what are you doing here?"

And finally, on the fifth day, his patience gashed and bleeding: "Devising some brilliant plan, Altair? Just like Solomon's Temple?"

Altair ducks from the mention of that place, turning his gaze from the King of Swords, moving at last for the roof grate. Malik smirks, watching him. Smirks to see him falter under memory's weight.

_-i-_

But the story ends as they always end, in shouting and church bells and guards swarming on the streets. The King of Swords watches from one of the bureau's little windows, frowning past the bars. Raed steps into the darkened room (Malik is keeping the candles low) and, hovering in the doorway, says, "_Dai_?"

"So he lives?" asks Malik. "So he survived?"

Raed is silent. Slowly, Malik nods.

_-i-_

After some hours the bedlam dies down and the Son of None steps into the bureau's main room. Malik greets him with a cheerful, "Altair! Wonderful to see you return to us. And how fared the mission?"

"The deed is done," he says, and shows him the bloodied feather. "Talal is dead."

"Oh," says Malik, "I know, I know, I know. In fact…" and he smacks the air, coming an inch from Altair's face. "In fact," he bellows, "the_ entire city_ knows! Have you forgotten the meaning of subtlety?"

"A skilled assassin ensures his work is noticed by the many."

"_No_. A _skilled_ assassin maintains control over his environment."

"We can argue the details all you'd like, Malik," Altair huffs. "But the fact remains, I've accomplished the task set for me by Al Mualim."

"Go, then. Return to the old man. Let us see with whom he sides."

But it is a tired argument, oh, it is a tired _year_. Al Mualim will favor Altair. He will give the novice a higher rank, return him a weapon or two. Before long everything will be as it was.

And Altair has the gall to sound _sympathetic_ when he says, "You and I are on the same side."

Malik can hardly look at him. Malik must add these details to his map of hell.

Altair leaves the bureau then, leaves Jerusalem, rides for home. Leaves behind ruins new and old. The _Dai_ of Jerusalem draws his maps and tends to his duties. The bureau fills with ghosts.


	5. Chapter 3

AN: I may have snagged the opening bit of blatant anachronism from the almighty time-suck that is tumblr. May have. Further research suggests it's a lyric from Lebanon's first gay pop song?! So that fits. The band is called Mashrou' Leila and you should all go listen to their music and then buy it because it's _so gorgeous._

* * *

**_The Meeting_**

'"Smell the jasmine,'" Malik hums. '"Remember to forget me."'

In Al Masyaf there is a garden. It sits perched on the edge of a steep cliff: below it is a river and beyond are endless mountains. It's lovely, lush with flowering plants and grass that never dies for too clear a sky. There are tiled fountains and tiled bowers thick with creeping vines. There are shaded spots kept cool regardless of season. The breezes sometimes bring the scent of flowers, sometimes the murmur of voices. There are women in the garden, and they know who wants their company and who does not, and they are very lovely too.

In the garden there is a gravestone.

Not a grave, no, not without a body. But a stone nevertheless, with name and date, a simple thing nestled in a thicket at the garden's far end, past where most visitors go. Not that there are very many visitors, because few people are allowed past the gates into this little slice of Paradise. Usually when Malik visits, and he visits as often as work allows him which is less and less these days, he's alone but for the women, who smile kindly. Who keep to their own business.

It's as he requested. To sit in front of the stone and talk as though it were listening, to pass on daily gossip or sing in a voice off-key though not unpleasant, would be impossible under watching eyes. It would strike others as too silly, too sentimental, for a fierce assassin primed to rule the Brotherhood.

Malik is sometimes ashamed of himself. Others can move on from loss, yet it is destined to be his shroud.

But it isn't wholly bad. It can't be, in such a place. Malik wonders how much he'd already figured out, when he requested of Al Mualim that a marker be placed here. He'd been delirious, ignoring that assassins don't usually warrant graves of their own in an Order that worships the whole, but still, a part of him must have known his self-exile wouldn't be forever. Masyaf would come to claim him again.

Masyaf will never again feel like home, except for in the garden. He can come here and sit, maybe prune the surrounding bushes a bit, then pull off his cowl and shrug off his _Dai's_ robes and talk. About Altair's latest tantrums, or a novice that hid from Instructor Rauf's ring, or how the local brothel has had its windows broken yet again.

About how uneasy he's made by the Apple of Eden. Altair won't listen and Malik won't betray him by fretting in front of others, so this is his compromise. The gravestone can't spread his fears.

Today the sky is so clear it reaches past blue for purple dusk. Today the jasmine is in bloom and the wind carries no voices. Today he talks of songs instead.

'"Brother, just don't forget me'…I don't remember the last verse," he says, keeping his voice low. Tazim is sleeping on a blanket after a loud, cranky night; the outdoors seems to calm him, so Malik put work aside to watch him out here, to the wet nurse's relief. "It's that same wandering singer. Every time I visit Jerusalem he has a new song picked out. Next time I return I'll have to ask him how this one ends."

He reaches out, brushes a fallen leaf off the stone. "He's not bad with the _oud_, either. That's one thing Jerusalem never lacks. Music."

A flower floats down and lands neatly on Tazim's face. The baby sneezes and stirs awake. Malik smiles and brushes off the blossom, but his son grabs for it and starts when his chubby fingers rip it in two. "Bah!" he says with surprise.

"You have to be careful with things so fragile," Malik tells him. "Here, look." He plucks another blossom free from a nearby bush and props it in Tazim's hand. "See? Gently."

Tazim drops the flower, rolls himself onto his stomach and gurgles with delight at his new trick. "Abaaa," he says, and grabs for blades of grass.

"You have a real hatred for plants, don't you?" Malik picks him up, sits him on his lap. "If I can interrupt your path of destruction…" He puts his hand to Tazim's back to keep him steady and says, "I want you to meet someone."

Tazim squirms. "Bababa."

"Not Baba. '_Am_. This is your uncle. '_Am_ Kadar. Can you say it?"

"Baba!"

Malik chuckles. "Sorry, Brother," he says to himself. "He'll get it."

He puts his son down and lets him go back to attacking grass. To the gravestone he says, speaking in more formal tones, "I haven't visited much. It's been very busy lately, worse than ever…Altair won't say so but he's worried about the Mongol attacks. We both know what it sounds as though they're looking for. But half the time he won't focus on our defenses, or on the fact that Abbas is due back any day, no, he's too distracted by fool's gold."

Malik sighs. "I complain about him a lot," he says. "I make it sound as if he were a terrible leader. But he isn't, Kadar. He's the best Master this Brotherhood has ever had. It's amazing the things he's done. We have assassins in cities Al Mualim never heard of, and they're wielding weapons the enemy's never seen. You'd be awestruck to see him. You really would."

The headstone doesn't answer. Malik feels a tad foolish. A chipped stone mounted over an empty grave. Why does it give him comfort?

"I don't know why I visit at all, actually. '_Am_ Kadar. Pathetic."

He's pulling out grass himself now, to keep his hand busy. "It's not that you died. People die. And it's not that you died young…you didn't really, not compared to others. Just last week we buried a journeyman two years younger, and _he_ didn't get his own stone. So why do I need such an extravagance?"

The grass falls from between his fingers, leaving thin traces of dirt. "It's not just that you died," Malik says. "It's that I promised." He works his words past a closing throat. "If there is an afterlife, then have you met Father?" he asks. "Is he furious with me?" But he sounds young and stupid. When has there ever been an afterlife?

"Ahhh," says Tazim suddenly, eyes wide. He's found an ant.

Malik distracts himself making sure the baby doesn't eat any insects. It becomes possible again for him to smile. "A shame you'll never meet him for real, Kadar. I think you'd like your _ibn akh_. You could teach him how to climb walls and only fall half the time. Although," he admits, "I'm not one to mock these days. Sometimes my joints are starting to feel stiff."

"_Dai_ Malik?"

He almost hears it in Kadar's voice, almost responds to the call as he might have done years ago, with a warm smile dipped about the edges in brotherly concern. But Kadar never called him _Dai_. So he's able to save face in time.

"Yes?"

It's a journeyman standing there, nervous in a place usually banned, glancing awkwardly at the uncovered women. "The Master has asked for you," he says. "Abbas has reached the bottom of the village. The Master wants you there to receive him."

Malik nods. He climbs to his feet, and scoops up squirming Tazim with a practiced motion. Steadying him against his body he says, "I want you on your best behavior, understand? No fussing. The A-Sayf family should look every bit as kingly as Altair's."

"Baba," says Tazim clearly, and rests his head against his father's chest. Malik's eyes soften.

"Well," he shrugs. "If nothing else I'll aim you at Abbas when you spit up."

He starts to turn back to Kadar's gravestone, but the journeyman is still there. Instead he spares it a glance. The journeyman says, "Were you busy with something? The Master said I should interrupt you if you were, but…"

"I wasn't," says Malik. "Just indulging in foolishness in my old age."

_-i-_

Altair receives Abbas in the same room he receives squabbling peasants. He sits in his heavy chair, with a frown bearing more impatience than malice. At his left shoulder stands Darim, stiff-straight with his arms clasped behind his back. He seems to hold every breath as long as he can, puffing out his chest. Earlier Altair noticed his boots were scuffed and scolded him; appearances are everything, something his heir must realize. But Darim had gone sulking to change boots, and now that he is where and as he should be Altair ignores him.

(And in the far corner, a ghost. But the ghost is keeping quiet and Altair ignores him, too.)

He taps one finger against the chair's armrest. A journeyman has gone to fetch Malik, under Master's orders. They have been waiting for some minutes, and they'll be waiting for minutes more.

As Altair has designed it.

Abbas kneels before him, head tilted towards the floor. He's changed since Altair saw him last, on the outside from stress and life in desolate villages. But Altair suspects the real damage happened the minute Abbas touched the Apple. It is not kind to those it disdains, that he knows. Who knows what wretches it shoved before the man's confounded eyes, as its impossible heat scorched his fingers?

Altair flicks his eyes over Abbas again, without changing expression. The man's dark beard is flicked with grey now. He still wears his journeyman greys, and it's delicious to see someone who once called Altair _half-breed_ reduced to such an insult of a post. Guard this border, yes, guard this forgotten border filled with shepherds and sheep shit! While the rest of us tend to the Templars. While the one of us takes control.

And then come back, when we decide you're harmless. When age has taken the bite from your curses and shame the strength from your sword arm, come back and bow before us. The Brotherhood cannot be shaken by the likes of you.

Abbas has always been tall, well-built, but he looks diminished in the Grandmaster's eyes. He also looks grey, the dull grey of unimportant background clutter, when Altair uses his eagle's sight, turning it on and off with a blink. Not that it's infallible. Al Mualim was blue, once, and infuriatingly Malik remains a cryptic gold. Eagle's Vision is tainted by emotion, Altair has decided, and grows less accurate the farther in the future the treachery lies. One day he must demand cures for such problems from the Apple.

Still, Abbas is not red today. Today he is grey nothing.

The man behind him, now, he is puzzling. He stands a step or two behind crouching Abbas, shoulders bent in a respectful sort of half-bow. He's lightly bearded, the skin underneath red with irritation. His eyes are the same light brown as Altair's own, his coloring a shade darker. He too is outlined in grey.

He has not introduced himself, because Altair has not yet bothered asking him to. His manner of dress is strange: white, baggy _salvar_ trousers and a multicolored vest cinched at the waist with a fat belt, in the fashion of the Seljuk Turks. But underneath the vest he wears a tunic common with Arab peasants, which is too long for the vest and has been bunched to fit. And he'd be the only Turk Altair has ever dealt with who walks around bare-headed.

"I asked for Abbas alone," Altair says to the stranger, prompted to speech by curiosity. "But he comes with a retinue. Is your name Abbas as well?"

"Your pardon, sir, but it is not." The stranger's voice is high, his accent as hard to place as his clothing, as though he was created out of bits of others' cultures. But then, Kapısuyu was once a port, and its faded borders are fluid. Perhaps this is not so unusual.

"My parents were merchants who traded throughout Anatolia," he continues, "but I have given up that life. I've settled in St. Symeon, and in fact it was during a trip to the markets in Kapısuyu that I first met Abbas and he—"

"I didn't ask you about your parents or your address," Altair interrupts. "I asked you your name."

The man grins, uneasy maybe, and when he does a scar under his chin is brought to sight. "Ali."

Altair gestures impatiently. "Son of?"

"Oh, Ali Ibn Berkant. Yes."

(The ghost stirs, damn the hateful thing. But what it says this time is less cutting remark than idle nonsense: "Ali. Huh. That's a good name.")

What it is, is unusual: Arab and Turk both. But understandable if he comes from trader stock. Altair looks at him through Eagle's Vision again and sees nothing of importance. Only another figure shrunk into the background, colored in the way of those who do not matter.

Abbas is still kneeling before him. Altair considers letting him stand. Then the door opens.

Malik walks in, holding his child. He steps past Abbas and takes his place at Altair's right shoulder, ever the loyal second, even if Altair sometimes thinks it's a game the _Dai _is playing. Malik is not one to drop his grudges. Couldn't his mercy be just another delusion…?

(The ghost says, "D'you ever wonder if my brother would leave you if you stopped having sex with him? You two are both so strange." No one hears but Altair, of course, and even he is able to keep from glancing at the far corner for more than a second before turning his eyes to better views.)

Abbas has tensed his shoulders and Malik is giving Altair a bemused look he knows quite well: one that reads, _stop staring at me, novice_. For that is what he was doing. Malik can call him dense all he'd like but Altair is smart enough to recognize the fixation.

"Safety and peace," he says, and only after Malik frowns and breaks off eye contact does he smirk and turn away. Many things in life have changed, but making Malik squirm will always be a pleasure. The man is so cautious about some things, whereas Altair…

Altair would like very much to bend him over right here, in front of Abbas and Ali Ibn Berkant and every guard in Masyaf. Wouldn't that be thrilling? Fucking him, bringing him to a loud and messy orgasm in front of a crowd of horrified faces, proof that Altair is the _only_ one worthy of Malik because Altair is the _only_ one who understands—

But according to some people that wouldn't be wise. And there's still the ghost crouching nearby. So he contents himself with knowing that in one small but crucial way Malik's easy to fluster: he's probably already hard underneath all those robes.

Feeling quite as though he's been crowned sultan, Altair finally motions for Abbas to stand. The man does so quickly, with relief, his expression easy to read. Something else that hasn't changed.

For when he looks at Altair his jealousy is plain. Here sits the Grandmaster of the Brotherhood, with his heir at one side and Malik at the other. How powerful he must be! It is, muses the Master, a sight enough to make anyone hard.

"Abbas," he says, damn near gracious. "And how was your stay on our northern border?"

"I did as my lord commanded," answers Abbas. He sounds drained. "I established a new bureau, as I wrote to inform you."

"Did you?"

"During the first year. I sent you pigeons."

"_Did_ you." A slight cough from Malik tells Altair he's starting to sound overly glib. "If you sent them than I must have read them," he allows. "But we have been very busy here."

"I see that. The village, ah, it looks to have grown since I left."

"We're planning to extend the gates. People throughout the region know that Al Masyaf means safety. And your Kapısuyu bureau? How does it fare today?"

Abbas stares at him. "Five assassins," he says. "Local recruits."

"Five?" Altair forgets the warning cough. What's the point in pretending amity? He's hated Abbas since childhood. "_Five_ assassins. I am not impressed."

(Grins the ghost, "You're never impressed. Better than everyone, right? In both title and ability!")

Altair digs his nails into the armrest. Darim looks perplexed, Malik exasperated, the Turk stranger thoughtful. Abbas outright glowers.

"I did my work. Maybe Kapısuyu isn't as busy as Damascus or Jerusalem but it's still a border. Don't ignore its people because they are pious peasants and not flashy atheists like some."

"I've no quarrel with the peasants. I asked you to explain how you dealt with them."

"I sent you detailed reports. Frequently."

"The pigeons must have gotten lost."

"A shame I wasn't sent to Jerusalem, eh? They know the way back from there well enough!"

"Many things happen in Jerusalem."

"Many things," spits Abbas, "and many sins also—"

Altair is on his feet at that but Malik interrupts before Abbas can insinuate his face into the Master's fist. "You both sound like children," he says calmly. "Abbas, need I remind you to mind your tone? You were banished for such conceit. Kapısuyu cannot be so interesting that you are in a hurry to return."

"…No. Forgive me," Abbas grinds out.

Malik continues, "_I_ read your reports, Abbas, in the Grandmaster's stead. Anatolia is a crucial region. You did well."

"Thank you."

"Your old guard post is taken but the Grandmaster will find you another one. Until then, you might work with Rauf in training the novices. We need instructors with an understanding of how bureaus are run."

"A good idea. I'll do that," Abbas agrees, trying for friendly. Altair, sitting again, his head on his fist, watches the charade with barely-concealed disgust. As if those two were ever such great friends!

"Malik, actually…"

"What is it?"

"Nothing, only, that child you're holding is your…?"

"My son. Tazim."

"_Mashallah!_ Good, yes, it's good to have a son to carry your name." Like a man wanting to die, Abbas glances towards Malik's missing arm. "I, ah, didn't realize you would…get married."

"Indeed, I haven't," says Malik without much inflection.

("I really wanted to get married," says the ghost, picking at its grey sleeves. "There was this village girl who had the best smile. Bet it's nice, huh, Altair? Getting married? If even you ended up with a wife.")

Abbas twitches an eyebrow. "But your son must have a mother."

"So he must. I never had the chance to know her." Malik still sounds calm, almost cheerful, and Altair is having a hard time keeping the grin from his face. People hear of the _Dai's_ legendary temper and fear his rages, but Altair has had the full front of that rage brought against him. It isn't Malik's shouting that he dreads.

"I am raising Tazim on my own," Malik tells Abbas in that same cheerful tone, and only Altair recognizes the danger.

Abbas moves on, fortunately for his neck. "And this is your son?" he asks Altair, who grunts.

Malik coughs again. Only louder.

Altair says, "This is Darim. My eldest."

Darim nods. "Safety and peace."

"And with you." Abbas spares him a quick look. "Altair—"

"Grandmaster."

"Grandmaster, I heard you have two sons."

"Sef and his mother are returning from Acre."

"I see. His mother, she's…well, to put it plainly I heard that she was a Templar. But that must be false rumor."

"Maria was a Templar. Now she is an assassin."

"Oh. And…you thought that was wise. To marry her."

("Doesn't he ask such silly questions? You're always very wise.")

"I wanted her to be here for your arrival," says Altair, disregarding them both, "but her work in Acre was too important. She wasn't able to leave early."

"Of course," Abbas murmurs, clearly vexed.

Malik looks past him, at the stranger. "Who is this?" he asks, and Ali Ibn Berkant hastens to bow his head of frizzy hair a second time. Altair can see Malik trying to make sense of the outlandish outfit.

"This is Ali," says Abbas, freshly emboldened. "He was one of my first recruits, and he's very talented. I thought it would be best to bring him to Masyaf for training."

"Abbas told me of the Brotherhood and I was intrigued," says Ali. "I'd met him several times in the markets but never knew what his robes symbolized. I'm nowhere near his skill level, of course, nor yours, but it would be an honor to truly join the Order. To fight for this cause."

("It's a good cause!" The ghost beams. "Better be careful, Grandmaster," it sings. "Better watch your admirers well.")

Malik looks at Altair, who shrugs. "We always welcome new Brothers," he says. "You'll have to learn the Creed and its tenants, follow our rules, dress as one of us. And you'll owe your allegiance to the Grandmaster. Whatever orders he gives, you must follow."

"Of course. Abbas has taught me a lot already. He is a fine teacher."

"Go with him to the training ring, then. Rauf can give you rank once he sees your swordwork."

"I look forward to it. Abbas has spoken of your mission with such passion, it was hard not to—"

"It's easy to speak of the Creed," says Altair, "but harder to live it. We'll see how flowery your praise is after a month of training."

"I understand, I do. But Abbas has made a strong convert out of me. You must be proud of him. He worked very hard."

Altair looks from the newcomer's eager face to Abbas's smug one and is consumed by boredom. His palms itch. Abbas works hard? Abbas begs forgiveness? What a _chore_ it is to care. There are countless weapons to build, countless warnings to be given—the Apple, the Order's _real_ work, is waiting. The ghost nods.

Darim says, "Father?" and he notices that everyone is looking at him.

"Fine," he says, too loud, and stands a second time. "Go and train. I have work to do elsewhere."

"You have a meeting of the local village elders," Malik cuts in. "An hour from now, as I reminded you yesterday—"

"Go in my stead."

"Altair, I am not the Grandmaster."

"You have more patience for coddling tribesmen. So you handle it."

Malik thins his lip into a tight smile. "We can discuss this in private," he suggests.

"There's nothing to discuss." Altair waves his hand at the rest of them, impatient. "You all have other things to do. Do them."

Abbas hesitates a minute at the abrupt dismissal, then lowers himself in a bow for as long as he can stand it, which is half a second. Ali bows longer and with more fluster. Darim says, "Goodbye, Father," and waits for a response. Altair, though, is watching the corner of the room again. Instead it's the _Dai_ who nods at him, holds out Tazim and asks Darim to take him to the wet nurse. Finally the Master's son must stiffen his shoulders and follow the other two out of the room.

The door closes. Altair takes a step towards his right-hand man.

Malik says, "I'll say nothing of how you treat your son."

"Good, don't."

"But you cannot pawn off all your unwanted tasks on me. I have my own. And as the Master of the Brotherhood it is _your_ duty to attend these councils. They're important, Altair! Where would we be without the locals' support?"

"Just as we are," he answers. "We are strong enough for that."

"Don't be so proud. They're expecting you, not me. You know how closely these men guard their honor, why risk offending it by sending the wrong man?"

"You're my second in command," he says. "Whatever you decide has my approval. If you need me to play nursemaid while you bicker with villagers then you aren't fit for the role."

Malik bristles. "You, a nursemaid? You can't even remember your own tasks."

"Because I'm busy. There is a lot to do, as you keep reminding me."

"There is a lot to do, and you aren't doing any of it," Malik says icily. "You don't attend meetings. You don't follow up with informers. You don't _eat_ or _sleep_. You sit in this dungeon all day and night looking into that goddamn ball."

Altair widens his eyes. "I haven't mentioned the Apple once today."

("You shouldn't lie so much, Grandmaster.")

"Novice, you might have everyone else fooled into thinking you're a mysterious demigod, but I'm not so blind."

"Then this is a pointless argument." He takes another step forward. "A waste of time."

"What exactly would you like me to say?" Malik asks, his eyes flashing.

Altair smirks. "Nothing," he says, and then he is on him, pushing him hard so that his back hits the wall. He keeps Malik there with one arm across his chest, and shoves his free hand under the man's robes, pulling the fabric off so hard something tears, ignoring Malik's hissed protests. He stops only after he finds what he's searching for and squeezes. Malik chokes mid-curse and arches back.

Altair snickers. "I knew it."

"Not, _nh_, here, Altair, you idiot. Anyone could walk in-!"

"Let them." Altair does not look behind him. The ghost in the corner is silent, giving him hope that perhaps it's left.

"Do you want a rope around your neck? Do you want to—_damn it_—swing?"

"Name one person in the entire Levant who could overpower the two of us. Name one person in the whole world."

But Malik is beyond naming much of anything. He bucks in Altair's grip, and as ever he demands as much as Altair is capable of giving, if not more. As ever it is a contest of wills, and to lose it is to win.

Malik is grabbing him now, and rubbing against him. Their robes are both askew. It's hard to say who's closer, or whose breath is more ragged. "Did you see him?" Altair says in a voice gone husky with need. "Did you see-?"

"See who?"

"Abbas."

"Of…course I did."

"How jealous he was. Of me, of you."

"Oh," says Malik, "is that why you're in heat?" And with a wicked half-smile he tightens his fingers and sends the Son of None right over the edge. Altair starts to pull away but Malik's grip is unbreakable. "Finish what you started, Master," he orders. And the Master, exultant, does.

_-i-_

It is late, and Al Masyaf is quiet. A few scholars walk to the Master's library, a few novices are being put through night-training by their instructors. A few villagers stir in the houses at the foot of the hill.

Abbas stands guard at the gate.

Behind him is the fortress, ahead the village proper. He is surrounded by what was taken from him, in the same spot. As though he was never gone. As though nothing has changed.

But Altair Ibn La'ahad has changed everything.

Abbas touches the sword strapped to his waist. He'd carried it the day Altair overthrew Al Mualim. The day their Master burned. And no one said anything. There were murmurs of discontent, there was anger, certainly no one tried to stop Abbas from doing what he did that day. But no one stood beside him, either. And no one else was blamed.

"I am not alone," he says to the night air. "You are with me, God. When I was a child You led me here. You gave me respect."

He clenches his hand against the sword's hilt. "But You gave Altair more. He has scorned You all his life, but You gave him talent and adoration and strength. He made me leave, he…he kept the Apple…! Damn him, what was I meant to do in Kapısuyu? What was I—"

He stops at the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning, he sees Ali, still dressed as an eccentric peasant-traveler, though he holds the red sash of the Order in his hands. Idly he winds it around his wrists, saying, "_Masah al khair. _A fine evening for a new beginning."

Abbas waits as long as he can before saying: "So you have met him. The great Son of None, Grandmaster of the Order."

"I have."

"And what did you think?" Abbas says bitterly, "Isn't he magnificent? Fearsome? Don't you want to grovel at his feet?"

"What do I think?" Ali cocks his head, unraveling the cloth off his hands. He holds it to the weak torchlight and studies the silk's patterns, smiling. "I think you're the man who interests me, not him. I suppose he is unique…did you notice how he kept looking to an empty corner?"

"Was he?"

"Mm. I think this Order is very strong, and it could get stronger yet."

"_Inshallah_," Abbas manages.

"And also," Ali says, lowering his voice, turning to smile, "I think you should introduce me to the rest of your Brothers."

It is late. Al Masyaf is very quiet. And the guard at the gate nods his head.


	6. Chapter 4

AN: Here, take this mass of words.

I lost a good month of writing time to moving (the worst thing) but now I am settled and happy and never moving again I swear to God.

When I started writing _And When the Earth_ way back when I never thought it would leave me finding parallels between Abbas and Maria. Maria will never be my favorite character, but I think there are interesting things they could have done with her. Which makes it all the more frustrating that she was given the Heroic Baby-Maker Love Interest role and then left to Bowden's ill-written whims.

* * *

_**Scar and Strength and Shadow**_

_The Apple says: They are coming._

_ Altair is unsurprised to find himself in this dream, or this waking delusion. Whichever. They are the same thing, ultimately, and they are more frequent by the hour. "Who is coming?" he asks._

_ The Apple answers: The ones who will send you fleeing from what you have built like a thief from the marketplace._

_ Altair says, "There is no such man."_

_ The Apple says: But there are such men._

_ The Apple says: They are coming. No! They are already here._

Altair opens his eyes, and straightens in his seat. He takes in the room before him, the books and stone stairs and sunlight streaming off the main hall. His desk here is kept clean, because the Grandmaster isn't a white-lined scholar dipping his beard into the books. He keeps his searching secret.

Even so.

He was dreaming of the Apple again: not a pure dream because he wasn't sleeping, would never sleep in public, but a dream of some other kind. A snatch of memory from the last time he held the Piece of Eden. Lately it has only had this one thing to tell him, whether he holds the orb or not.

"You should let Malik know," says Kadar, sitting on the lip of the massive window, swinging his feet.

Altair looks to his left, where a guard stands, and says, "Bring me every scroll you can find on the Mongols. And do it fast."

_-i-_

Maria Thorpe's arrival is heralded by rain clouds, a boiling scrum of them set low over the village. It's early in the season for rain, and the clouds promise cooler temperatures but also an unprepared-for dousing that sets the farmers worrying. Malik wonders, and frowns at himself for wondering, if their timing isn't some sort of sign.

When he receives word that she's in the main hall, he puts down his quill and fetches his son, and they go to greet her and Sef.

He sees her before she sees him, so caught up is she in a conversation with her husband. Maria looks travel-worn, overheated in the European-style riding getup she insists on wearing, down to the chain mail usually only seen on Templars. Remnants of her other life. Her skin is equally foreign, burned from the sun, but somehow it matches the highlights in her hair, which she keeps cropped at a sensible man's length. Maria is nothing like any woman Altair had ever seen before; Malik has never wondered why he loves her.

Although the words 'love' and 'Altair' don't really belong in the same thought. Presumably there is some word for Altair's feelings towards his wife, just as there is some word for his feelings towards his sons and his second-in-command. What that word is, though, is something other than _love_. Malik loved Kadar, and it was that simple, and there were no asterisks hanging after the word.

Regardless. Altair cares deeply for Maria, and it's obvious why. With one woman he both can rile the peasantry and have an unruly duel. With one woman he can curse and plot and sneer, just as he would with any man. Maria, practical Maria, who wears European armor because she will never fit in regardless, and so why shouldn't she be comfortable and dress as she likes?

Determined Maria, who carries her own type of loyalty. Has she any inkling at all…?

Tazim babbles, and Sef, standing off to one side with his older brother, spots Malik first. "Hello!" he says brightly. "Safety and peace! Is that the baby Mother told me you got?"

Malik's chest tightens at Sef's chatter. In looks he is nothing like that other younger brother, as stout as Kadar was lean, as fastidiously dressed as Kadar was a walking flurry of torn robes and stains. But Sef is still a child. He's traveled with his mother for a year, and must have seen much during it, yet he knows so little of the world.

Darim frowns and crosses his arms. _If it were my brother back from a journey, I would hold him_, Malik thinks. _If it were my brother I would never have let him leave._

Here they stand before him, then, the La'Ahad family. Malik dips his head.

"Safety and peace," he says. "I trust this year has treated you two well."

"More than well," says Maria with satisfaction, in fluent but accented Arabic. It will never not be strange to hear a woman address him so directly, though strange is not always bad. Altair already wears his veil; at least Malik can look _one_ of them in the eyes.

"Acre will stay loyal," she continues, "and so will fifty hamlets between it and here. I've made sure of it."

"Acre is no easy city to work in. I'm impressed."

"There were slavers," says Sef, "and arms dealers, and a lot of drug peddlers, but Mother told them all to—"

"Sef," says Altair, and gives Darim a look that says quite clearly, _Take your brother elsewhere_.

Darim does so, dragging Sef off down the hall, and as he passes Malik can hear him scolding, "If you kept your _mouth_ shut they would've let us stay."

"I'm not awed by Acre, really," says Maria, and tosses her head. "For a city ruled by warlords it was easy to manage."

"Again, I'm impressed," says Malik. "The Templars, the Saracens, I can never keep track of who supposedly controls it when."

Maria shrugs. "It makes no difference. Men are men. Either they're taken by a strong handshake and a helmet, or they're distracted by their dicks."

"I can see you playing the mysterious knight. Not so much the temptress."

"Who said anything about playing?" she shoots back, and smiles at him. He tries to read the emotion in it and isn't sure what he sees. Has he ever, in all these years, had a conversation with Maria that lasted longer than five minutes?

Altair says, "Acre is an important city. I did well to send you there."

"I did well to send myself there, thank you. It was my idea to go."

"Whichever." Altair looks at Malik, and his expression Malik can easily understand. He might as well be a puppy wagging his tail, hoping for a pat on the head.

('Altair' and 'puppy' are also words that don't fit together, but Malik figures he's allowed _some_ amusement in life.)

Altair is still talking, telling Maria of new novices and new bureau leaders and new emissaries, all of which require her input. That she is a woman, and a former Templar, and that maybe not all of those novices and bureau leaders and emissaries want anything to do with her, never crosses his mind. That she needs to handle these people because he is too busy with his Apple and Malik too overworked to find the time, he neglects to mention. Maria must know _some_thing of the Piece of Eden, Robert de Sablé being her former leader, but not the truth of what it does. Malik doubts Altair has told her much.

Altair spins his lists of orders and Maria begins to look disgruntled. He hasn't once reacted as normal humans might to the arrival of sons and wives after a long absence; perhaps Malik missed the romance, but he doubts it.

Finally Malik interrupts. "It can all wait until tomorrow," he says, ignoring Altair's incredulous glare. "The trip from Acre is long. You and Sef must both be tired." A moment's consideration, and then he adds: "I'll introduce you to some of the new faces tomorrow, if you'd like. The ones who might prove…difficult."

Maria looks at him, grateful, but not fully. She wears something else on her face, mixed in with the respect due one fighter towards another. Malik wishes he had the time to parse through this woman once and for all. Oughtn't he hate her? She rode with de Sablé once. She celebrated the man's successes. She praised him for his slaughter.

"Why wait until tomorrow? I'm not tired, we can start now. Only let me make sure Sef is settled in."

"Darim must be happy that he's home."

"They're brothers," Maria says with a lift of her trim shoulders. "They fight. As long as one doesn't stab the other."

Malik smiles, lets the comment pass. "It really won't hurt to wait until tomorrow to get to work. The emissaries will keep a night."

"Are any of them actually important? The Order doesn't have time to waste on hangers-on. If they aren't loyal to our cause and don't have anything to offer, we shouldn't give them the honor of a meeting." Maria, in switching sides, brought with her the sometimes-startling vehemence of a convert. She also brought the inborn snobbery of a nobleman's daughter. Altair has somehow found the one woman in the world who thinks as little of, and tries as hard to save, the illiterate peasants as he does himself.

"Vetted thoroughly," Malik promises. "By Darim for experience, and then by myself."

"Darim did a bearable job," says Altair.

"I'm sure Darim did as decent a job as his father would have done." Maria flicks her enigmatic smile at Malik again. "But that might not be saying much. How crucial it is that the Order has Malik here." She looks at Tazim. "Hopefully his new turn as father won't be too distracting."

"It won't be," Altair says.

"He's adorable, Malik. He looks very happy."

"Your wife's an expect flatterer," says Malik. "No wonder she did so well in Acre."

"There, we've said our compliments." Maria stirs in her armor. "Back to running the Brotherhood. These new novices, are any of them worth noting?"

"Not particularly. Unless you count your husband."

Maria has the good grace to smile.

_-i-_

The men are training in a side courtyard, two of them, swarthy types with scars burnt into their skin. They'd be mercenaries if not assassins, mercenaries or bandits or soldiers, if there is a difference between the three—but they are assassins, and skilled ones, religious in that half-hearted way that even Altair has been unable to stamp out. Between the two of them they have killed twenty men and injured a score more. Frightened countless. They serve Altair as they served Al Mualim.

Their dedication is not a promise. The stock they put in honor is not small. They are what the Assassin's Order is made out of, these two men. They are its past and present. To look at them is to see the future, as well.

Ali Ibn Berkant approaches the two wearing his brightest smile. Abbas trails after, nonplussed. Ali is so _friendly_! He's introduced himself to half the Brotherhood already, from _Rafiks_ gone creaky in the mind with age to novices who don't know how to hold swords. Half of both groups will be death within five years. Why bother?

"_Salaam_, Brothers," chirps Ali, heedless of the interruption. "Safety and peace."

The two men stop sparring, stare at him, at his mismatched outfit and strange hair. "Safety and peace," says one of them. "Who are you?"

"A new convert! Thanks to Abbas here, my teacher."

Abbas turns his head towards the men, not very willingly. He doesn't know them, but he's sure they know his sullied name.

Fortunately, all that is said in response is, "Indeed?"

"Oh yes! But to be explained the Order in some dusty nowhere is nothing like to be here, in the heart of it. Such an organization! Every person with his role."

"And yours is...?"

"I guess you'd call me a novice," laughs Ali. "You'll see me training with the ten-year-olds."

The expression on the faces of both men suggests otherwise. Why should they watch him at all? Abbas loathes being condescended to, wonders if Ali isn't the _slightest _bit dim, and is about to suggest that they move on when Ibn Berkant says, "But you two looked very impressive. Master Altair must heap praise on your shoulders."

Neither man says anything, at first. Then the one of them lifts his shoulders in something a little more aggressive than a shrug. "I've never spoken with the Master myself."

"Nor have I," adds the other.

"But he must mention you to others," Ali insists. "There must be rumors, like, oh, 'This one accomplished his mission without flaws,' and, 'If you send him you know the job will be done.' I can tell from your swordwork that you are both accomplished. And if I have the uniform correct, high-ranked, right?"

"Assassins don't care for rank," says one of the men. "Nor praise. And the Master isn't one for gushing."

"Still," says Ali. "If I were Master I would want my men to know I was watching. A Brotherhood is nothing without Brothers, right?" He laughs, merry. The assassins exchange glances.

Abbas is confused, but his confusion is a thin layer under which other, more dangerous, emotions are stirring. He knows that if he were to slip his fingers under the lip of his uncertainty and glance beneath, he would see something...would see Ali smiling as he's smiled to everyone they've met from novice to _Rafik_, would hear Ali gushing as he's gushed to strong fighters ("Oh! The Master must be proud of you. No? He's never said?") and encouraging as he's encouraged the new ones ("Does the Master really yell at the novices the way he yells at _Dais_? But you're so young! He can't expect so much of you yet. The Master is a reasonable man, I'm sure.")

Abbas's confusion is a gauze bandage, wrapped around darker things. Nameless suspicions. He watches Ali sculpt his face into grin or gasp and wonders all the while.

"I'll stop bothering you," says Ali to the two other assassins. "I shouldn't keep Abbas standing out in the sun doing nothing."

"From what I hear that's all he's done for years," mutters one of them. Color rushes to Abbas's face. What do these men know of _nothing_? Would either of them have put up with what he's survived? No, they'd turn back into mercenary-soldiers and be done with it, the Order and its capriciousness, the Order that demands and doesn't offer.

Abbas survived. Abbas is _loyal_. Abbas believes in the Brotherhood, because the Brotherhood told him he wasn't worthless, no matter what his father or his father's wives said. Because throughout the world there are only either the kingdoms of murderous Christians or the sultanates of men who insult Islam, pretending to be Allah's next Prophet while cutting out the tongues of old _imams_, shutting the cream of Islam's youth in secret prisons for their godly rabble-rousing. Abbas believes in the Brotherhood because it is a third option, and though it ignores God it doesn't demand that _he _ignore God.

Abbas believes in the Brotherhood, even when it embraces Altair, who for all his _changes _is still a self-centered prick. The Order is all Abbas has.

So what do these assassins know? Not a thing. And yet before he might tell them that, Ali is speaking, and what Ali says is enough to give all three of them pause, the assassins and Abbas both:

"I always thought the Brotherhood believes in redemption," he says, mildly. "That's what Abbas said, what I loved. The beauty of it. Even the Master himself needed that. He isn't perfect either, is he? People have doubted his allegiances before."

No one says anything.

Ali continues, "The beauty of the Brotherhood is that even a man called a traitor can be made Master. Although I guess he made himself Master. I'm sure it's the same thing."

The four of them are quiet, considering it, in the heat that is trapped and writhing under the thickening clouds.

_-i-_

Maria is…awkward, with the other assassins. Malik studies her as he takes her about Masyaf, early in the morning, showing her the changes just as someone (Altair?) must have first shown her the Order when she went from prisoner to confidant. She acknowledges everyone well enough. She brushes off whatever doubts they give her over her sex, religion, origin, allegiances, she shrugs her shoulders in a rippling motion and lets their concerns fall.

But Malik can tell she isn't comfortable. Something in the way she stomps about, mashing her heels, an exaggerated man's strut aped from the soldiers she's spent her life around. Something in the way she never smiles.

He leads her past the inner gates of the fortress, pointing out the new fortifications. Maria nods. He takes her as far as the village gates, noting where the wood beams have been replaced and where the guard increased. A needful task even with the war quieting down, he adds before she can say much. _Rafiks_ come up to them, and lesser-ranked assassins, and the occasional villager. Malik absorbs their greetings and accepts their complaints. Maria stops trying to join in the conversations at about the third one. She watches Malik instead.

Then he takes her towards the back of Masyaf, where the cliff is swallowed by sand. And by sea, a long way down. "While you were in Acre we reinforced the passage to the bottom," he says. "It's the only path of escape for the people who live this far from the main gate, should the fortress itself fall. The stairs have always been so slippery."

"Yes," says Maria, "I remember walking them with Altair and—"

"Even in the summer they're slick with mist. So we've tried to remedy that."

Maria walks down a step or two. "They feel sturdy. But shouldn't we still try to keep it more hidden?"

"There are extra guards on the cliffs. There," Malik points, "and over there. Across the river as well."

"Across the river is new, although Altair did mention it in a letter. It's not technically within our territory, is it?"

"We have our arrangements."

"Obviously."

"We need those extra sets of eyes. It's too vulnerable otherwise, it's always been. We can't trust the river to keep us hidden."

"Nothing about the assassins is _hidden_," Maria says with some exasperation. "Malik…"

"Come, at the bottom I'll show you the cliffs we've carved out along the beach. They aren't used much yet but in a desperate situation—"

"Malik!" Maria's heels click once against the stone stairs and refuse to lift again. Malik, who is a few steps ahead, turns to look upwards at her. "Stop _rushing_. You've dragged me from one end of the village to the next and haven't stopped to answer half of my questions. Or let me answer any on my own. Riding from Acre was less exhausting."

"My apologies. What questions can I answer?"

"For starters, you _are_ aware that I've kept in contact with my husband over the last year? He's told me half of what you've told me already, in great detail."

"Altair will go on about his schemes, but he'll leave out the boring bits. And the boring bits are usually important."

"Secondly, why are you leading me around like a farmer with a goat?"

"I offered yesterday. You accepted." Malik arches a brow. "Here we are."

"You said you'd show me what was changed! Not take me on some _forced march_. I might be a soldier but you aren't my general."

Malik murmurs, "Were you a soldier? I didn't think the Knights Templar let women in their ranks."

Maria's eyes flash and her chest swells, but Malik holds up his hand. "That was impolite," he says. "And stupid. My temper escaping me. Forgive it."

"It's forgiven."

"Then shall we continue? You really should see the caves."

"What does it matter what I see? You could run the whole Order drunk and blind, without me or half the _Rafiks_, and probably without the Master. Altair's wife is a superfluous position next to Altair's second-in-command."

"Untrue," says Malik, though he has thought it, a time or two in that first year of their marriage, when it felt like everything that had been repaired was about to be thrust asunder by the risk of the Grandmaster's whims. When it felt as though he had surrendered on good faith only for Altair to take him for granted once more.

"Granted things would be much easier without the Master. But if I were so perfect, Altair's wife wouldn't have cause to scold me."

"I didn't call you perfect," Maria says, and focuses her direct, unsettling gaze on him, boring at him, picking at the cracks. "I said that you knew the Order well. You've always been here. How can any newcomer compare?"

"You're hardly new," Malik points out. "And we aren't comparing."

"Maybe we should. Maybe you should realize how dangerous it is for you, holding all the Master's secrets. I may not know the Brotherhood down to the last chipped rock like you, but I know a thing about royalty. The king likes to be the only one gifted with all-wisdom. He doesn't keep his teachers around for very long."

"Altair would make a terrible king. And I don't think I have much to fear from…" Malik reconsiders with an ache in his shoulder, and an ache further down. "I have a lot to fear from Altair," he allows, "but not betrayal. Not deliberate betrayal, anyway."

"Who says I was speaking of Altair?"

Malik squints up at her. "You and your husband both love to talk in riddles," he complains. "And then he scolds me for doing the same."

(But of course he understands what Maria means. Of course he sees the frustration in her eyes, the lost and lonely look of anyone far from home. Who can blame the woman who's born the heirs for wanting what should be hers? No, she doesn't _realize_, not yet. But Maria was raised in a noble house, by knights and lords and learned men, and she sprouted up sharp.

The clouds are swelling, ready to burst. But still the heat gathers.)

"Come see the caves," says Malik. And leads her down.

_-i-_

Abbas considers strangling Ali. Whatever the silly man's aims are, whatever sand it is that clogs his head, why won't he listen to Abbas for even a second? There are plenty of people to bother with his prattling and his exclamations, if bothering the Brotherhood is his new mission in life: why then must they bother these people in particular? Abbas has been wondering (and he will not let himself realize _what_ exactly he has been wondering), but he knows that these two assassins are not likely to listen to what it is Abbas can't name.

Ali simpers over anyway, bobbing and grinning. Rauf at least smiles back. Raed ignores them both.

"So sorry to interrupt," says Ali, in that tone that is just a little too aware for someone playing the role of village idiot. "I wanted to introduce myself to the Order's best. So here I am."

Abbas tries not to groan. The Order's best? These two?

He shifts, sweating. The storage shed they've crammed themselves into is tiny, not meant to hold four people at once, especially not when it's already cluttered with stacks of weaponry. The light is dim and pulses through air heavy with dust. It hurts the throat to breath in deep, the air sharp as swords. This outbuilding is not so far from the hill where Abbas once tried to make his stand.

("Burning the Master's body? This is not our way. You see what he does? All of you! You see how he spits in your face?"

_Why wouldn't they listen_?)

Ali is still babbling, Rauf attempting to follow the chatter and clean his sword at the same time. Abbas gives up trying to figure out why he's let himself be dragged across Masyaf so Ali can make new friends. He looks instead at Raed, who is sitting cross-legged despite the lack of space, scraping rust off a dagger. Raed looks back, face blank, because Raed is one giant blank. Others may call him still, or reserved. Abbas calls him dull.

They've known each other since childhood, but there's never been any friendship. Abbas isn't surprised that while he's been handed nothing but humiliation after humiliation for his attempts to save the Order, Raed has risen in the ranks for sake of being the lap dog's pet. And how pathetic is that? To grovel at the feet of one who grovels…somewhere else? Yes, Abbas thinks, and can't help but sneer with disgust, definitely somewhere else.

And the Order allows it! And the assassins turn their eye! If Altair thinks he's tempered the rumors by marrying the Templar witch, he's wrong. Abbas knows what he's heard. But the Brotherhood looks the other way, permitting this great sin to happen in their midst. Marrying Christians is at least allowed by God. What god would sanction marrying…?

Abbas, faced with Raed, wants to shake the man. Wants to shake everyone who wears assassin's robes, until they let themselves _realize_. But no one will listen to a traitor, though they follow one every day.

Rauf says in the background, "Oh, yes? Is that…huh?" He sounds mystified by Ali's surge but, being Rauf, is willing to try and muddle through. Abbas tries to ignore the regretful pang of watching him. They were friends once. Maybe Abbas never liked anyone here: some days it does feel like that. Some days he is jealous watching Ali meet others because he found him first. But Abbas and Rauf were friends, for whatever that word is worth.

Once, they were close. Once. Not now.

That has long been ended, smeared with awkwardness, punctured with treachery. Rauf made his choice. And it wasn't to stand with his friend.

"He talks a lot," says Raed to the air. "What exactly is he saying?" Abbas mumbles something about introducing Ali to his Brothers. "Oh?" replies Raed. "That's interesting. There've been many new faces to come since you left. You must need the introductions as much as he."

Will they never stop reminding him that he is an outsider? This Raed, so _quiet_, so _even-tempered_. This Raed who Malik has feted in public. He's like the rest of them, only he covers it with an air of moral superiority. Abbas remembers being a child, remembers how they scoffed at him for fasting at Ramadan and praying when he could. Raed wasn't above the taunting. He wasn't so superior then.

"The Order hasn't changed so much," Abbas says. It sounds dumb even to his ears. Behind his empty face Raed is surely laughing.

"It felt changed to me when I came back from Jerusalem," Raed says. "And that wasn't such a long exile."

"Hardly exile if you chose it."

"You chose yours, as well."

"I did not—" Abbas strangles the words in his throat. "I did what I thought best. You weren't there. You don't know what happened."

"You took the Master's weapon and tried to lead a coup against him," says Raed calmly. "That was a choice. He could have had you killed. That was another choice."

"So I should be grateful? So I should kiss his feet the way you kiss Malik's?"

"The Order requires loyalty. If that's too much for you, the problem isn't with Master Altair."

"Altair was wrong then! Burning Al Mualim's body, the shame of it, wasn't he our Master also? Wasn't that a coup?"

"Al Mualim was corrupt. He caused the deaths of many of our Brothers."

"Who was it who killed those assassins that day? Not Al Mualim. I was in the mountain village when it happened. A lot closer than _Jerusalem_. I saw Al Mualim and…he wasn't himself. I don't know what he was trying to do, I don't argue that he betrayed us. But one betrayal doesn't support another."

Raed turns his back, ending the conversation. Abbas steams. One Master forgot himself, yes. Does that mean everyone must forget the cruelties of the next? All his life Altair has scorned them!

That was why Abbas took hold of the golden orb that day. To make his Brothers see. To make them understand. To show Altair that though people want to forget, want to be led, though Malik tramps on his brother's _grave_ every time he lets Altair _touch_ him—though people are weak Allah is strong, and Abbas is strong through Him, strong enough to fight for the Brotherhood, strong enough to save it.

(He held the orb and it hurt like fire, like acid, like the separation of man from God, it scalded his skin and his bones and ran him through with wicked laughter in his ears, _Who are you? Why would we bother with you?_ and down to the depths of his marrow Abbas was not worthy of even this Templar trick, and he thrashed with it, with the clinging inadequacy that wrenched him from his home.

And he thought, _Altair can wield this. _He thought, _Allah's mercy. Altair is so much stronger than I._)

"Well," says Ali, bringing Abbas back to the dusty room, the heaps of weapons in the close air and Raed's disdain. "I know you're busy. We'll be off."

"Um, ok," says Rauf. He glances at Abbas and reddens: "We should spar soon," he says, which is a surprise. "It's been a long time." It's been a long time because Rauf has been avoiding him, but still, Abbas wishes he'd been paying attention to the banter.

"It's curious about those villages, though. A tragedy," Ali says over his shoulder as he turns to nudge open the door. His hair has frizzed in the wet, close air, making him look a touch ridiculous.

"It's terrible," says Rauf, "but, well, it's a dangerous world."

"Certainly is. There's been a rash of village burnings lately, didn't you say? Although the war is over."

Now Raed is listening too. "The war ended. The Templars didn't," he points out, in a voice very close to a growl. "The Master has done well with the Order. We owe him everything. The whole Levant does."

Such an outburst is unusual for him. Abbas raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, of course, of course!" Ali holds up his hands. "I'm only saying what a shame it is, to be attacked at the end of things. When Masyaf's safety isn't so far away."

Rauf looks distinctly uncomfortable. "They were offered protection…"

"Yes, you explained it all very well. They were offered protection by the Master and they turned it down. The Master can't be blamed. It's their choice to make."

"It is," says Rauf, relieved.

"Even if the villages were then attacked soon after rejecting the offer. It's a shame, is all I'm saying. If they'd listened to the Master no harm would have come to them…" Raed rises at that, but Ali chitters and waves him off. "I didn't mean that how it sounded. Everyone knows it was the Templars. That's what they do, and that's what the Master said. I talk too much. Forgive me!"

Rauf busies himself with his swords. Raed stares them out of the shed.

Ali is whistling as the two of them follow the path towards the fortress. Abbas asks, "What was that?"

"Hm? Nothing more than a chat."

"What were you talking about?"

"You, mostly. I hadn't realized you and Rauf were such good friends. You should have told me!"

Abbas, startled, says, "We were friends. What matter is it of yours?"

"Nothing, nothing, only I told him how thankful I was for your tutelage, and how lucky he was to have your wisdom around growing up."

"_Shoo hada_? What did you…why did you…"

"He agreed, of course."

"He did?"

"Yes, of course. Looked a little embarrassed, even, to be reminded of good times. I thought that was weird."

Ali is smiling, as usual, looking silly, as usual. Abbas is flabbergasted. "And…and the villages?"

"Oh, that. He mentioned one of the attacks when I asked him where _Dai _Malik found his son. Since he isn't married. Just curious is all."

"No, he isn't married. Hah!" Abbas curls his lip. "He doesn't even have the wisdom to hide it with a woman like Altair."

"Hide it?" Ali cocks his head. "Hide what?"

"Nothing. Clearly it doesn't matter to anyone here but me."

Ali stops walking. "Tell me," he says. "Brother."

And why not? Nowhere in the Quran is Abbas required to safeguard the sins of others. "I used to think Malik was smart," he says carefully. "Smart enough to see how things really are, if he'd just use his eyes. But I've since learned that he's blind as the rest of them. Only blind in a different way. He must enjoy whoring himself to Altair. Even if it got his brother killed."

"You curse so much, you know. I'm always surprised to hear you speak the way you do, being Muslim."

"It's not cursing, it's description. I've said nothing that isn't true."

"Wait. Do you mean the _Dai _is…?"

"Whore, catamite, _khawal,_ _akroot, zamel_. The Master and his mistress." Abbas throws up his hands. "But it doesn't matter! We are not religious here!"

Ali says, "That's interesting."

"It's disgusting. And these men would raise _children_. At least Altair is collecting wives. I don't know what Malik thinks he is."

"Does everyone really know?"

"People suspect. If it were made clear even this bunch of atheists would have to react."

"Yes, I guess they would. Very interesting," says Ali again. "I would never have guessed."

_-i-_

The fortress feels filled with children, with older children sneaking into meetings where they aren't needed, with younger children stealing quills from scribes as a prank, with infants bawling for the sheer joy of working lungs. Altair will not deal with it, and Maria has always acted, probably rightly, as though playing Mother in front of other assassins would dent her reputation. Somehow it falls on Malik to manage the heirs, his own included.

Interspersed with this are what Maria aptly terms war councils. They and a select group of informants cluster around tables choked with maps. The Mongols' every movement is tracked, discussed, prodded at. To call them merely a worthy opponent would be an insult to the Mongols…Malik can't be the only one wondering what their cities must look like, their people and customs. The trouble is that all they can do is wonder. The Mongols leaders are good at catching spies and better at catching infiltrators: Altair sends his best men but few of them return. The Mongols have talented scouts, maybe, or a culture that's difficult to mimic. Or something else.

Malik the assassin knows there's no one who can't be discovered in time. Malik the mapmaker doesn't trust empty spaces. They tend to have dragons in them.

Between the two distractions, children and war, there's little time for anything else. Little time to see how Maria is settling in. Even less to sleep.

Yet somehow Altair finds the time to slip inside Malik's room at some horrid hour of the night…

Malik, tired as he is, should protest, but he's too taken aback. With Maria and Sef back he'd assumed their trysts would trickle off. But here Altair is, panting in a way that only makes him sound more powerful, pressing Malik's shoulders to the bed and shoving his tongue down Malik's throat.

They fuck like the young men they aren't any longer, and when they're done it's a content Malik who shoves Altair from the bed so he can pull off the sticky quilts. Altair curses. The Grandmaster surely looks his best when he's being pushed on his ass.

Afterwards, pouring water from a jug into a basin so he can wash himself, Malik comments, "I'm surprised you're here."

Altair is slouched against a wall, naked, turning his hidden blade's brace over in his hands. "Hmm," he says, not really listening.

Malik turns to face him. "I mean it," he says, louder. "It's a shock."

"It shouldn't be." Altair holds up the brace. "You've never worn one," he says. "Why?"

Malik tries to guess the hidden meaning in the question, but damn it all, it's too late for games. "Hidden blades are for Master Assassins."

"You _are_ a Master Assassin."

"You should stop playing with that thing. Why do you fall in love with your weapons? Sef and Darim could stand to see the same affection."

"Did you hear me? You are a Master Assassin. Why don't you wear one?"

How to tell him that Malik thinks of himself as _Dai_, not Master Assassin? "I like my arm free," is what he says. "The brace is clunky. If I could wear it on my left wrist maybe I would."

Altair says, "I'm working on a lighter design," and Malik respects his ability to talk over his guilt.

He goes back to washing up. "You shouldn't be here," he says. Running a wet cloth over himself, he sees how Altair stiffens.

"Where should I be?"

"In bed with your wife. You can't be so obvious. She's going to find out."

Altair straightens off the wall. His nude body is all scar and shadow. "Let everyone find out."

Malik drops the wash cloth and raps his hand against the basin's edge. "Don't be an idiot," he snaps. "Think of what would happen, not just to you but to her. And to your children. And to my own."

Altair looks at him, lips tightening with unexpected anger. "I'm tired of _thinking of it_. Listening to you worry is exhausting. These needless secrets are—"

"Hardly needless! And you should be happiest with secrets, assassin. Allah's sake, Altair, I can't figure out what it is you want."

Altair says, "What I've always wanted: everything I deserve. Everything." Malik doesn't know how to answer that. Altair comes up to him and rubs against him and he is closer than he should be, close enough that they are almost one person, one form alone, and it's almost like it used to be, before. Before Kadar and Al Mualim and Maria. Before Altair traded away his freedom to the Piece of Eden without knowing what he'd done.

"So," Altair breathes in his ear, "then do it."

"Do what?"

"Tell her. Send me back to my wife's bed and keep me there."

Malik gives a slow shake of his head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I was here first," he says, and his lost arm hurts, and his head does too. "I was here first, and I have paid my dues."

As Altair drops to his knees he doesn't look happy, or wounded, or anything at all. In the end, it doesn't matter much. "There are more," he says, so quiet Malik almost doesn't hear him. "More Pieces of Eden. The Apple said as much. I don't know where they are, but I remember that map…"

"As do I," Malik says around an indrawn breath. "It wasn't a map of our world. Half those places don't exist."

"Maybe they do. Maybe we haven't found them yet. Maybe the Mongols are looking for them too." Altair is busy then for some moments, too busy with his mouth to talk. Malik closes his eyes and tries not to think.

"I'm going to find the other ones," Altair says when next he can, lips glistening and face flushed. "Before the Mongols, or anyone else. They're too dangerous. They can't be left scattered as they are. I need to know…"

"Need to know what?" Malik wants to know, and then is too distracted to remember he'd ever asked.

_-i-_

The villagers gather when the assassins arrive.

Assassins are frequent guests here, most for the brothel. But some are stationed here as guards. Several were born in the village itself, several more in the surrounding hills. It isn't Al Masyaf, but it's close enough and small enough that sometimes it forgets. Assassins are not unusual, or unexpected.

Still, this time the villagers gather. There's something beguiling about the man with wiry hair and baggy trousers who peers about with inordinate interest. The man with him, long-faced, thickly bearded, in typical journeyman attire, is less interesting.

The sky looms close and pitted.

The villagers gather, men in striped _djellabas_, boys fiddling with their prayer caps, even a few women in all-encompassing black. They listen to the man with wiry hair introduce himself as Ali, which is a good name, a strong and familiar name. These are the days of unfamiliar names, after all: leaders named for no father taking wives named for false gods. The villagers trust the Masyaf assassins, but recognition is refreshing.

Ali's business here is unclear. He professes to have no interest in the brothel, is surprised that it exists at all, wonders at pious people – "And I can see," he cries, "that you are all very pious!" – allowing such fecund depravity to exist.

The bearded assassin nods his head. The villagers shrug and mumble. The brothel has always existed here, in some form or another. The assassins like it; the whores bring in good business; the local _sheiks_ are powerless against the will of the Grandmaster.

Ali says that is a shame. He says the Grandmaster isn't a king. He says even Master Altair should not be able to override the will of the people. He says the Master is a great man, though, a wise leader, this is obvious, and maybe he just doesn't realize what the people want. How often does he visit with them? When was the last time he stooped to ask their opinions?

Ali claims to be startled by the answer of _almost never_, though he doesn't look it with his round eyes and his smile showing all his teeth. The villagers point out that the Master sends his second to tend to disputes quite often. Yes, Ali agrees, the Master does this quite often indeed.

How often, he asks, does Altair send his Templar wife?

There is some minor uproar at this. The woman isn't a Templar. The woman is never sent. To send a woman to treat with men would be the utmost affront. It's rude to all involved even to discuss her in a public setting. It besmirches her honor and theirs.

Ali keeps nodding, and grinning, and later all the villagers will agree that whatever charm he had was in that smile. Ali says he was only curious. He says he wonders if the Master will follow that custom, since he ignores so many of the rest. The bearded assassin says nothing at all.

There's only one moment where Ali is interrupted. An old man, settled in by the horse troughs as if he sprouted from the spot, wants to know exactly what business any of this is to a new assassin. The old man knows ranks and hierarchy. He knows how the Brotherhood operates. He's given to it before.

"Things work here as they've always done," the old man points out. "They work without help from you. Don't you need permission just to leave Masyaf?"

Ali's smile withers at the edges. He doesn't look so mesmeric now. But he's polite to the old man, which is fitting, because the elderly must be respected even if they've outlived their families and friends and (so the villagers comment later) some of their sanity as well.

Everyone in the village knows the old man, and because his voice is so recognizable it flows past them without sticking. Ali is new. His voice has crags, and crevices, and it catches in novel places.

After the two assassins leave the gathering dissolves, the people getting back to their lives. But some of the men stand talking in low voices, their shoulders stiff as barricades to ward off unwanted ears. The old man, still sitting by the horse trough, proclaims himself disgusted by the liberties of the young, but no one's listening to him.

It was only a couple of assassins, and this is a village that is used to assassins, and so Ali's visit can't have mattered much at all…

_-i-_

Locked away in an old trunk, a shard of gold that gleams like glass begins to glow. Only faintly. Only for a moment. And with the trunk's owner elsewhere, there's no one near enough the shard to see.

Outside it starts to rain. Too early and too heavy, the panic of farmers, but it doesn't last. Doesn't do nearly enough for a world that is sandy scrublands, parched since Creation, thirsty for magics beyond what the clouds can bring.

_-i-_

They've done it, Abbas thinks. It's been some weeks since he and Ali arrived, the latter's mishmash of clothing replaced by basic white-and-red, and finally he's been introduced to _everyone_. Ever.

It's almost a relief for Abbas to finish his midday watch (the worst guard shift, which goes straight through the afternoon heat and past the hope of timely supper) and not see Ali beaming at him. The new assassin must actually be training.

Abbas slides off the bulky holster, depositing his sword at his feet, and dips his head into a small fountain cut into the fortress wall. He is pounds lighter without the sword, without the day's sweat; he is lighter in other ways, too. Never mind his insult of a post, the grueling heat-pressed stint usually handed to newly-made journeymen. Never mind all the insults of his life. Allah is with those who suffer. Abbas lets water drip down his neck. He will pray, eat, take an early night's rest.

"Abbas! _Good evening_, Brother. Safety and peace."

Abbas turns, still dripping, blinking back water and dismay. It isn't that he dislikes Ali's attention—he _deserves_ Ali's attention—but the man's whims are so exhausting. A curse of a gift. Abbas was prepared to lose Ali once he joined the Brotherhood, was prepared to watch him go the way of all his childhood companions. But Ali wanted to join the Order, and the Order always needs new men…and Ali has shown little interest in actually _befriending_ any of the many people to whom he's said hello.

"Safety and peace," Abbas says, then pauses. "What was that you just said? _Gude eehvn_-?"

Ali tilts his head. Does his smile stiffen just a touch? "Hm? _Good evening_, it's an English greeting. You don't know it?"

"Why should I learn the Crusaders' tongue? They can learn mine." He stoops to rearm himself. "I never studied English, or French either. The Quran is in God's language, so Arabic is enough for me."

"That's true, that's true, yes." Ali nods. "As for me, my parents traded with anyone who had coin. Sometimes I speak without realizing what I've picked up."

"Hmph. Too much knowledge can be a burden if it's in the wrong things."

"I agree." Ali is wriggling again, eyes dancing, tone dancing too. "Why, I was just coming to scold you! But it's really my fault for having asked. I so regret last week's little talk."

"What talk?" Abbas moves toward the front gates, expecting Ali to follow, distracted with thoughts of supper and sleep. But Ali stays put, though he does rock his heels, and he ignores Abbas's impatient finger-beckon. The guardsman is forced to retrace his steps. The sun is strong even at this hour, last week's rain a memory dried to dust. He can feel fresh sweat kissing his spine.

Ali says, "You re_mem_ber. What you told me about the Master. So shocking."

"Shh! Don't bring it up so casually. You haven't mentioned it to others?" Abbas demands.

Ali's eyes widen. "Oh, no, oh, of course not."

"You have to watch yourself here. This is a village of assassins. You think they won't listen in?"

"Yes, right."

"I shouldn't have told you. I was-…" caught up in his sticky anger, raging at Raed and Altair and most of all Rauf. "Assassins can't gossip about their Master," he says, stiff but sure. "Even if he's going to lead them to the pits of Hell or the Mongols' maw."

Ali says delicately, "The Mongols are disrupting the trade routes. It's causing some concern, I hear."

"It's Master Altair's concern. I will guard my gate. If there's nothing else," says Abbas, "I want to wash up. It's almost time for _Maghrib."_He hesitates, looks to Ali's boots rather than his face when he asks, "Join me?" It feels more salacious than it should, inviting another to share in a private moment between him and God, and anyway Ali isn't religious so probably he won't—but Islam is about community, really, and wouldn't it be nice not to pray alone for once? Wouldn't it be nice if he and Ali prayed—as friends might pray together anywhere—even in this Brotherhood that has room for all but keeps everyone alone—

"_Maghrib_?" Ali looks blank. "Oh! Well, I won't keep you. I just wanted to say."

"Yes. It's an embarrassment."

"I guess great leaders can be forgiven their sins, even very large ones, so long as they lead well. And no one can say Master Altair isn't a great leader. He has men everywhere. So I guess he can be forgiven."

"So he must tell himself." Abbas looks towards the fortress. "It's not my place to prevent his sinning. He does his duty by the Order—"

"Even if the men never see him. Even if he never spends time with the villagers whose support is so important. Even if…it might not be right to say it, but he always seems distracted. You remember our first day back, how he didn't want to attend any of his meetings. Wanted to send Malik instead."

"He does that too often," Abbas grumbles, then catches himself with a frown. "Ali..."

"Oh, I'm not saying anything negative, don't think it, I'm just pointing out: he's often distracted. By Malik, I suppose, or by empty corners... Everyone I've spoken to has noticed it. He's the Master, he can sequester himself if he likes. But I think other leaders might not be so frivolous with their duties."

"Other leaders? Ali, what are you talking about?"

Ali smiles, pats his shoulder. "You are such a good assassin," he says softly. "You deserve more than what he's given you." Abbas can't work his way to coherency. It's _wrong_, what Ali is saying, it's treason.

And Allah knows it's true.

"Altair doesn't take me for a threat," Abbas says, and can't hide the wound, doesn't even know if he wants to hide it. "He doesn't take me for anything worthwhile. He never has."

"I think Altair forgets his pieces," muses Ali, who has turned his head away and is gazing off past the training ring. "He can only think on grand scales, but all grand things were small things once."

"Listen, Ali, you've said enough."

"And to think!" Ali all but bellows. Abbas almost jumps. "What he is doing with Malik! It isn't our place to judge it, but I feel for his wife. Think of it, if the one you shared your bed with was committing carnal acts with the wrong sex entirely and _every_one knew it. And you had to humiliate yourself, talk with the man in question like he was your friend. Maybe if it was with a woman, men will always want a fresh pair of tits in their bed, but a man? And if you suspected it but couldn't prove it, well, I think it'd drive me mad."

"_Inti mafish mukh_, Ali, you brainless fool, will you shut your mouth! You'll get the both of us killed." Abbas snares the edge of Ali's sleeve and drags him across the courtyard. Ali lets himself be dragged, the smile still twisting his lips. "I _told _you. Why would you _shout _it? For God's sake, idiot, have some sense-..."

Abbas stops mid-word, mid-step, almost mid-breath. His heart should be racing more than it is, his stomach should be entirely knotted. But he feels only confused. It's Maria Thorpe who looks caught in some crime, standing at the winding ramp that leads to the main hall's great doors, eyes darting under thick lashes from Abbas and Ali to the nearest guards, as though trying to gauge from behind their masks what they might have heard. She came from one of the towers, Abbas realizes, from one of the little paths that splices off the main ramp, and he hadn't seen her, and she'd heard.

And Ali, limp in his grip, isn't even trying to hide his smile.

Maria, in her man's armor, with her knives, looks young, almost childish. But she is a soldier, if women can be soldiers, and she arches her shoulders back so sharply it must hurt. She walks past them with every step a furious crack against the dirt. She is the wife of Abbas's Master, she outranks him in every conceivable way, and she stares him in the eye as she passes.

But she looks young, and pale, and very much the interloper. Which she has always been.

Ali pulls himself from Abbas's grip with a little spin no novice assassin should know. "You knew she was there," Abbas says to him. "You saw her. She could have us both split open, you fool, but you knew that. Why...?"

"Small things," says Ali, laughing, "Small things, Brother. You would do _much_ better in his role."

There is nothing left of the fool in him now.


End file.
